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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544931">Paper Tiger - A Siberian SI</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABitToTheWest/pseuds/ABitToTheWest'>ABitToTheWest</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Parahumans Series - Wildbow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Nuclear Weapons, Panic Attacks, Self-Insert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:19:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>51,866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABitToTheWest/pseuds/ABitToTheWest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Paper Tiger /ˈpāpər ˈtīɡər/ (n) - one that is outwardly powerful or dangerous but inwardly weak or ineffectual</p><p>The Siberian is a cannibalistic serial killer. The Siberian is the projection of Doctor William Manton. The Siberian is dead. I am alive. </p><p>I hope.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>129</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Out With The Old, In With The New - Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first actual fic, and I hope y’all like it.</p><p>This is being mirrored from my thread on Spacebattles, follow it there for the most current updates.</p><p>https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/paper-tiger-a-siberian-si.826314/#post-65029359</p><p>Note - This is a story centering around the Siberian and other members of the Nine, all of which do very gruesome things, so if you are not comfortable reading about: Cannibalism, Murder, Medical Experimentation without a license, or anything else that would be expected with the S9 I would advise you to give this a miss.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>- The Siberian -</i>
</p>
<p>I dreamt of eating, of crunching bone and tearing muscles, the rich, iron taste of blood colouring admittedly stringy meat. I felt a bone-deep sense of satisfaction running through me, the thrill of the hunt that led me here concluding in my favor.</p>
<p>Tearing a hunk off my prey, I stand, looking down at the body below me. He reminds me of David somehow,  face indicating a plain and boring everyman, albeit an seven foot tall everyman with the build of a professional weightlifter, his last expression, insufficiently obscured by a tiny, black domino mask, that of horrified agony, the all to common reaction when a monster, always thought to be too far away to ever possibly harm you, makes an appearance at your doorstep and begins eating your organs, one by one. </p>
<p>He was called Atlas, before he was a pile of meat, and he boasted all the typical Brute boasts; “I’m the strongest, I’m the toughest, I can beat anything”, all coming to naught in the end, of course, as most of them find out, either through me or an Endbringer, they all find out they aren't anything better than meat. </p>
<p>He was having some PR event when I found him, an sidelined role playing the circus strongman to a crowd, lifting people, weights and, unimaginatively, a large globe, trying to show that the people surrounding him were safe, that he was strong enough to protect them. I was here to show them all that he wasn't even close</p>
<p>I am not a subtle monster, I did not hide from his attention, seeking to kill him away from onlookers. I wanted to make sure they saw him die, saw their protector come up short to a true monster. However, I could not simply teleport in front of him, the sport of the hunt would be non-existent, practically boring! So appearing in an unfortunately occupied changing room was the best option. Well, unfortunate for the woman suddenly lacking her eyes at least, as I got to enjoy my favourite snack, and she got to collapse against the wall, screaming in heartfelt agony. I strode out into the open air pavilion, basking in the glow of the afternoon sun, rolling thunderheads in the distance providing an apt omen for the trials to come.</p>
<p>He must have heard the scream, as, assuming it was some smaller crime in progress, he turned around and made direct eye contact with my quite distinctive eyes. I paused for a beat, waiting for that shining moment, that stark terror as he recognized his imminent doom approaching, and, to my irritation, it took him a full five seconds of confused staring for his mind to catch up with what his eyes were telling him, but when they finally widened, I felt that rush of adrenaline as I stalked forward towards him.</p>
<p>To his credit, he recognized his plight and tried his best to flee, deaf to the horrified screams he left behind as I loped through the crowd, lashing out indiscriminately at the mass of people frantically trying to make distance between us, trampling those in the way of their freedom and safety. Those who could not move out of the way fast enough, or those who, amusingly enough, were pushed, were carved apart by the passage of my inviolable body, great gaping wounds torn out of the flesh of those I pass. </p>
<p>While this slaughter  was a tempting diversion, I knew my prey and he would not escape. As he sprinted away, he frantically fumbled with a sleek looking phone before raising it up to his ear and screaming into it, begging for back up. Whatever response he got was evidently not to his liking, as he screamed in mixed terror and frustration and, twisting around, threw the phone squarely at my head.</p>
<p>It shattered on impact, tiny electronics and LCD fragments careening  off my face as I grinned, an open, sadistic smile, drinking in his obvious terror. </p>
<p>Skidding to a stop, he inhaled sharply and turned, his eyes hardening slightly with the type of death-given courage I have seen so much of in the last decade, the belief that things could not get any worse, that there was no way to escape and the only thing left to be done was to fight. </p>
<p>He lasted for a total of three seconds, one to close the distance with a powerful, desperate lunge, one to throw a wild haymaker that could have torn through steel, and one to die, my outstretched hand thrust through his chest with a wet, tearing crunch. He met my pitiless eyes as I tore open his ribcage and extracted a handful of flesh, eyes tearing up as his last breaths struggled from torn and tattered lungs before finally falling backwards onto the rough asphalt.</p>
<p>I followed him down and began my feast.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>- William Manton -</i>
</p>
<p>His van is parked in a nearby parking lot, the evening sky threatening rain as day slowly shifts over to night. The tension is thick in the city, seen in the drawn and terrified faces running away from the monsters in the dark, both real and imagined. They bunker down and hope that they will be spared the inevitable atrocities publicized on the news for the last twenty years. The Protectorate has sent out bulletins advising citizens on what to do in the worst case scenario, calmly recommending to run away, avoid attention and stay safe. Everyone in the city knows the advice means nothing, that these well-meaning words won’t protect them, and that they can only hope that it happens to someone else and not to someone they love.</p>
<p>Inside the van however, the mood is immeasurably different, as Manton feels on top of the world, as he always does when he is the Siberian, an invulnerable killing machine, repaying the world for all the hurt it had heaped upon his life, the loss of his daughter, the slow destruction of his scientific career, and the divorice of his wife all leading to the horror of a man he is today.</p>
<p>The Siberian does not need to eat, but William Manton does, the bedraggled truck stop sandwich he had acquired days ago barely serving as the nutrition he needs, but the visceral act of cannibalism provided the sport he most definitely desired.</p>
<p>The Nine have served well as the vehicle of his revenge, a lightning rod to draw heroes to their threat, to bring her more helpless people to kill, to disappoint those depending on their heroes like he was, but they are not worthy in knowing his face, his background, the truth. Jack might still be trusted, as he assuredly already knows the truth of the Siberian, but as he has not made inquiries of this fact and demanded an explanation, so Manton will not offer anything unprovoked.</p>
<p>The rest, save one, are dullards, a fleeting cast of fools craving murder and destruction. All but his darling Riley. She will be better, she has to be. Or else, he doesn’t know what he would do if she failed. He can’t lose another daughter, not again. please</p>
<p>
  <i>-meltingfleshandscreamingasyouronlydaughterdiesshesiftsthroughyourhandslikesandyoucantholdherwhyisthishappeningncontessayoupromisedwhy-</i>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <i>stop</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>breathe in</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>breathe out</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>She’s still standing out there, and she needs to keep moving, or else she doesn't exist, and if she doesn't exist I have nothing, so keep her moving.</i>
</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>
  <i>wait</i>
</p>
<p>….</p>
<p>"WHERE IS SHE?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>- Someone Else -</i>
</p>
<p>I blink.</p>
<p>I blink again</p>
<p>My hands are red</p>
<p>My mouth is red</p>
<p>People are screaming</p>
<p>What is happening</p>
<p>What do I do</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. You're Never Alone When You Want To Be - Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>- Not the Siberian I Swear -</em>
</p><p>The world reassembles itself around me slowly, the scattered impressions of the last hour pounding through my skull, fleeting sensations of carnage and bloodshed playing over my skin and blood settling heavily in my mouth. I slam my eyes closed against the blinding light stabbing into my over sensitive eyes and try to coax my consciousness into some semblance of working order by laying out some very simple observations of my current wretched existence.</p><p>
  <em>Eughahhhh whyyyyy</em>
</p><p>Firstly and most prominently, I feel like absolute shit, as if someone has been beating me over the head with a particularly heavy mallet for the last hour and then inflated my brain with a bicycle pump. Secondly, despite the aforementioned headache and radiating waves of pain stemming from it, I feel a surety settling throughout my body of the like that I have never felt before, the innate confidence that no matter what happens, I will be left unscathed. Third and finally, I am outside, the wind whistling in my ears and hundreds of cicadas buzzing in distant trees providing some clues to this fact. I could swear I heard screaming a few minutes ago, but there is nothing I can hear now, just the relative quiet of a southern evening.</p><p>I start to inhale and instantly regret it, a foul odor quickly making itself known, the heavy, fetid stink of blood, piss and shit coming from right beneath my nose.</p><p>With no small amount of dread, I slowly open my eyes and my breath catches in horror. I’m kneeling over a corpse in the middle of a deserted parking lot, completely naked save for all the blood. The corpse is a tall and muscular man dressed in what looks like blue spandex(???) with a mutilated logo of a globe printed onto his chest with a tiny mask attempting to cover his features. I know I need to do something other than kneeling here and staring, but I cannot move, my eyes locked upon the corpse beneath me, at his tortured face, and at the ruined remains of his chest.</p><p>
  <em>God, I can see straight through him</em>
</p><p>I have never seen a dead body before today, and to see one this close, to know that these hands, whether they were under my control or not, tore him apart mere minutes ago is a pointed horror I had never thought I would experience. I feel the sudden urge to vomit, to expel the human flesh assuredly still inside me, evidenced by my bloody mouth, the hot, iron taste lingering on my tongue, and the memory of screaming and tearing stabbing at my temples. I try to vomit, but nothing comes up, the reflex itself feeling somehow alien, leading to a dry heave clear of any bile or purloined flesh, my body going through the motions without any understanding of the purpose behind it.</p><p>I blink slowly, forcing myself to break my horrified stare away from the corpse, trying to focus on something else, anything other than the body in front of me and my mind hits upon the creeping suspicions of the body I inhabit.</p><p>I look down at my hands slowly, dreading what I know I will see in the fading light. Long, fearsomely pointed, pitch black nails extend from hands that I immediately know are not my own, being far too small and dainty to belong to me. The stripes are also a dead give-away, streaking over my flesh in tiger-like patterns. I rub the divisions between black and white skin, absentmindedly noting the absence of even a hint of color from any blood underneath. The more pressing realization makes itself known shortly after, that there's no give to my flesh anymore, feeling much more like the polished stone of a statue flawlessly moving in a facsimile of life than the flesh and bone I rightly expect.</p><p>It hits me then, being unable to deny it any longer, faced with the evidence surrounding me, the blood, the viscera, the superhero, the stripes. I am the Siberian, the unstoppable, cannibalistic serial killer who recently ate a superhero in broad daylight.</p><p>“Fuck.” is what I attempt to say, my lips working and lungs exhaling in a single movement I’ve done a thousand times before, but the word doesn't escape my throat. I try again, and again but the expletive does not come out. I try to sigh, but fail once more even at this most human of expressions. I am entirely silent despite my best attempts otherwise.</p><p><em>Later</em>, I think to myself, more than a little rattled, I need to get out of here before someone comes along and complicates things further. I really don’t need that right now. I work my jaw, trying to remove the blood from my tongue, a more difficult task that I anticipated, seeing as I am stark naked and both the hero and I are soaked in an obscene amount of blood. This too becomes a problem to be tackled later as the screech of burning tires attracts my attention down the road.</p><p>A vehicle that looks like the platonic ideal of a serial killer van has just rounded the intersection at what must be over forty miles per hour. It jumps the curb and hurtles through the deserted parking lot towards me, swerving wildly around the few cars still parked there. As it accelerates towards me, I see a bearded man locking eyes with me, frothing at the mouth with a mixture of apoplectic rage and desperation present in every line of his face.</p><p>My prior stillness breaks in an instant as I throw myself to the right, narrowly avoiding the van barreling past me. As soon as I dodge out of the way, the van hits the body with a gristly thud, which, being a gargantuan pile of muscle and bone, serves as an effective obstacle to the vehicle’s continued high-speed existence. The van’s back wheels leave the ground momentarily as the vehicle comes to a grinding stop some twenty feet away, the smear that was once a hero covering the road and dripping from the ruined bumper.</p><p><em>Ah hell</em>, I think to myself faintly</p><p>With an almost comical delay, the airbags deploy as soon as the door begins to open, throwing the man onto the ground with a hideous crack. He pushes himself slowly to his feet, clutching his obviously broken wrist, and stares at me with widely blown pupils. He’s white, obviously middle aged, balding, with a matted beard and a grease stained wife-beater. He opens his mouth, revealing a forest of black, rotting teeth sprouting from his gums and says in a strained voice full of longing;</p><p>“Cecily. Rue. Manton.”</p><p>
  <em>Was that her name? Huh.</em>
</p><p>I narrow my eyes at who I greatly suspect to be Doctor William Manton, the master behind the Siberian and all around asshole. He gave a Cauldron vial to his kid, who promptly died and in his grief, drank the vial that made the Siberian a reality, drawing off the memory of his dead daughter to make a distorted version of her go around naked and cannibalize people. Which so happens to be me. Apparently.</p><p><em>What a fantastic father</em>, I think, glaring at him more heatedly than before, <em>tainting her memory with a legacy of indiscriminate murder and death</em>.</p><p>I think the Simurgh helped him on his way to being the violent murderer he is today, but I honestly don’t know. Maybe he was always this way and just needed the power to make it a reality. Separated from any repercussions, any impact on his own life, having all the blame funneled into the concept of the Siberian, a decision to keep his own legacy intact by sacrificing mine.</p><p>Breaking off the depressing train of thought, I look back over at Manton, and it seems he’s taken notice that I haven't immediately gone over to fawn over him and has gone back to the frothing anger from before, screaming incoherently about theft and betrayal. His logic is hard to follow and is at once incredibly arrogant and achingly insecure, changing goalposts by the sentence, alternating between begging and threatening me. After a minute, the ranting just starts to blend together and wash over me and I realize something very important as I watch this monster in human skin have the equivalent of a child’s tantrum.</p><p>I've got a choice to make.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I feel like im getting into the swing of writing again and im really enjoying it. I'm going to take this as far as I can.</p><p>Thanks for reading this, it means a lot to me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Hard Choice Requires A Firm Hand -  Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The choice, in its most bare bones form, is simple, either I kill Manton or I don’t. There is a good bit of fuzziness involved in the reasoning, as with the vast majority of life or death decisions, but it really just boils down to whether or not to kill the man standing in front of me, glaring me down with no small amount of venom.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“Give. Her. Back!”</em> he hisses through rotten teeth, his dark eyes dilated and shaking as he stabs a quivering finger at me.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“She’s mine! You can’t just take her!”</em><br/>
<br/>
I can’t just let him go, he's personally killed so many people, a number that eclipses any singular person in my world. He’s killed openly for the last ten years, gleefully killed heroes and villains, murdered hundreds of innocent men, women and children alike. He’s taught generations to fear my face on pain of violent dismemberment and cannibalism.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“I’ve done so much, you can’t just stop me now!”</em><br/>
<br/>
No one knows the Siberians' true face, if I left him here, powerless and free, no one would know who he is, the atrocities he’s committed. Cauldron knows his true identity, but I seriously doubt they would break their masquerade over Manton alone. Too many awkward questions about his existence, not to mention what he might say to expose Cauldron as an organization. If I don’t kill him, he’ll probably be assassinated by Contessa to tie up loose ends. Either that or he’ll destabilize the Protectorate’s power structure throwing a ton of shit into disarray. Who knows.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“I need to do more!”</em><br/>
<br/>
He might have some form of latent control over my actions, might seize control when I least suspect it. He might use me to kill people. I can’t end up like this again, crouched in the viscera of another person without knowing I got there. Not again.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“I need to avenge her!”</em><br/>
<br/>
I might need him to survive. The Siberian is his projection after all, if I kill him, how do I know that I won’t just drop dead? I’m already not responding to his commands, he’s probably tried to recreate the Siberian already and that clearly hasn't worked or i'd have been attacked by the actual Siberian as soon as I went rogue. It all depends on what’s supporting my existence right now. Is it him, control supplanted by my consciousness but my existence still being fed by his passenger.<br/>
<br/>
No matter, either he dies and I stay the Siberian and have to deal with the problems stemming from that, or he dies and I hope whatever dropped me here feels charitable. Whichever way this ends, I am sure of two things, that he dies and I’m going to be the one to kill him.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“It’s not fair!”</em><br/>
<br/>
For the betterment of everyone, for myself and the countless people he murdered. I’m going to kill him.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“I’m not done yet!</em>”<br/>
<br/>
I just need to go forward and do it. Put one foot in front of the other and end his life.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“I’m doing a good thing here, I’m sure she would have realized that.” </em>he sobbed out “<em>She’s dead because of them, she would have wanted me to do this for her!</em>”<br/>
<br/>
<em>I really doubt that</em><br/>
<br/>
I stand up, what would normally be a practiced, fluid motion instantly complicated by my vast inexperience with this body. The Siberian being a solid eight inches shorter than my old body throws off a lot of muscle memory. The general composition of the Siberian is weighted completely differently from a normal human’s body, somehow both incredibly dense and very light, throwing me off even more. This resulted in an ungainly struggle to get to my feet, nearly falling several times, finally resorting to pushing myself up from a crawling position, swaying dangerously as soon as I got up on two legs.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“You’ll never be her!”</em> Manton shrieks, clearly not impressed by my attempts to get to my feet.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Good</em><br/>
<br/>
I start to slowly walk towards him, swaying as I catch my stride, my arms growing steadier at my sides as I psych myself up for what i'm about to do.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“Who are you to criticize my life, my work!”</em><br/>
<br/>
I'm standing within arms reach of him, staring directly into his crazed eyes. I’m close enough to see a distorted reflection of my own glowing amber eyes on his own. I take him by the collar of his stained wife-beater and tense my other arm in preparation.<br/>
<br/>
<em>It's the right thing to do<br/>
<br/>
“If I didn’t get this power someone else would have!”</em> He shouts hoarsely, his voice clearly starting to feel the strain of his unrelenting ranting. Flecks of spit and phlegm impact my face, as he shouts “<em>At least I had a good reason!</em>”<br/>
<br/>
He begins to shout something else before I interrupt him by punching him as hard as I can in the face. My fist hits him in the nose, pulverizing the bone and cartilage as it continues through the rest of his skull with a hideous wet crunch echoing out across the deserted parking lot. He instantly sags around my arm, which is currently buried up to the elbow in his face. His corpse is effortlessly supported by my outstretched arm as his hands make abortive grasps around my arm, one holding a brief grip on my wrist, before both fall limply to his sides.<br/>
<br/>
His body twitches once, twice, then promptly shits itself.<br/>
<br/>
I slide the bloody ruin of his head down my arm with a squelch, dropping the profusely bleeding corpse on the ground where it crumples in a heap.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Well...<br/>
<br/>
That was easy</em><br/>
<br/>
I stare at the body for a long while, as whatever serves as adrenaline in this clusterfuck of a body winds down. I look up at the sky, gaze following a plane crossing overhead, halfheartedly wondering if they’re looking down at me, wondering what they’d make of what I've done. The Siberian murdering an random homeless man most likely. God, ten minutes in <em>Worm </em>and already making moral choices, what are the odds.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Enough<br/>
<br/>
He’s dead and I’m not.<br/>
<br/>
That's good<br/>
<br/>
Real good<br/>
<br/>
Now then, what's next?</em><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Apparently the siberian can talk but I find it more interesting if she can’t. More misunderstandings that way. :)</p><p>My reasoning is that she doesn't have lungs</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. If You Lack A Goal, Keep Walking Forward - Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>I need some clothes</em><br/>
<br/>
Perhaps not the most pertinent thought to come to mind following the extra-judicial murder of a serial killer. But as I stand there, stark naked in the middle of a mall’s parking lot and absolutely covered in blood, it's exactly what comes to mind. Manton might have enjoyed “showing off his daughter's body to the world” but I really don’t ascribe to that particular philosophy. The sensation itself is not physically uncomfortable, not that I would expect this body to feel much in the way of actual discomfort ever, but it does feel incredibly unsettling being naked in a public space, like some random cop is going to come by and bust me for public indecency.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Though I suppose that's the least of my crimes now, isn't it?</em><br/>
<br/>
The sun is just starting to dip below the trees far off into the distance. I feel like everything has taken much longer, my brutal entry into this world, trying to acclimate to my new body and the facedown with Manton all feeling like hour-long struggles, but now, looking back on it with a more or less clear eye, i'm sure that it took less than ten minutes, start to finish..<br/>
<br/>
<em>Longest ten minutes of my life, </em>I think, actually looking around at my surroundings for the first time, being all too distracted by other, much more pressing matters, to be looking at the scenery earlier.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Where am I anyway? It’s probably the american south based on the cicadas but that's still a huge area. Am I still in North Carolina? God I hope not. It does look like a typical american highway town, what with the Waffle House and all, but that really doesn't narrow it down.</em><br/>
<br/>
Glancing around, it seems to be a fairly normal, if somewhat sparse, mall parking lot, save for the two corpses, me and an incredibly bloody van. Now that Manton’s incessant screaming has stopped, I can faintly hear moans and cries of pain coming from the mall, from behind the jagged remains of the plate glass doors the hero had shattered in his haste to escape, even as she chased him down.<br/>
<br/>
<em>I can’t even try and help them, ‘cause if I went back in there, it would just further delay any real help and probably just give them heart attacks, thinking that I came back to finish the job.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, if I want anyone to help them, it's probably best if I leave, hide out somewhere and organize my thoughts on what the actual fuck I should do. I mean, shit, I'm the Siberian, an actual, factual supervillain with super powers! What the fuck is going on!? What should I do?<br/>
<br/>
hey<br/>
<br/>
slow down<br/>
<br/>
breathe</em><br/>
<br/>
I genuinely don’t know what to do, but I do know that I’m definitely not doing anything productive out here. I need to hole up somewhere that no one will find me for a few hours, get my bearings and approach my future decisions with a clear head.<br/>
<br/>
Resolutely, I turn myself around, away from the mall and the bodies, and begin to slowly walk forward, swaying dangerously as I desperately attempt to figure out the best way to move faster than an unsteady shuffle. I then try to steady myself on a nearby lime-green hatchback, and the second I put my weight on the car, my arm goes straight through the side with a scream of tortured metal. The complete lack of any resistance it offers to my weight continues my forward momentum, which proceeds to embed my face several inches into the asphalt, my arm carving through the rest of the hatchback to land next to me. The car alarm screams its displeasure as I contemplate death.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Right, forgot about that, completely immutable and shit</em><br/>
<br/>
Groaning internally, I pull myself back to my feet, admittedly much more smoothly than before and, after admiring the impromptu self-portrait in the asphalt, begin my forward progress once more, this time with much more caution when catching myself overbalancing. I make it to the road and with a certain amount of amusement, look both ways. Predictably, it's completely empty, everyone having fled long in advance. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a bulletin played over every radio station in the area; WARNING: SIBERIAN SPOTTED IN THE AREA, TAKE SHELTER AND KISS YOUR ASS GOODBYE, or something like that.<br/>
<br/>
Walking seems to be a skill I am slowly relearning, though not even slightly as well as before, though at the very least, I can now walk without falling on my face. Stepping down onto the tarmac, I head off towards the thrift shop visible down the road, my step slowly becoming more and more sure as I walk forward, crossing a sad looking median covered in yellowed grass, cigarette butts and various unidentified stains, an obviously abandoned cardboard sign lying face down in the dirt right next to a styrofoam cup filled with assorted change.<br/>
<br/>
Curious, I bend over to pick it up, almost overbalancing in the process, but manage to snag it while hastily adjusting my balance. Looking down, I read the message scrawled upon its surface;<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<b>LOST EVERYTHING</b><br/>
<b>LEVIATHAN - SEATTLE</b><br/>
<b>ANYTHING HELPS</b><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<em>Huh</em><br/>
<br/>
Endbringer refugees, created when their property, their family and everything they've ever known vanishes into the ocean, never to be seen again. I wonder what work can even be done, to rectify the enormous tragedy of it all, to shore up the horrific losses inherent in the situation of giant monsters obliterating cities every few months. After a while people just start accepting it as part of their lives, every few months losing a city and just feeling grateful it wasn't theirs. Probably why the Nine have been around for so long, the slow grinding decay inherent in this society made manifest, their existence seen as just another unavoidable disaster.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Damn<br/>
<br/>
Can I even do anything? Sure I'm strong but not enough to stop them, and not trusted to even try.<br/>
<br/>
If one’s nearby, or if the choice is offered, maybe<br/>
<br/>
...<br/>
<br/>
Not the Simurgh though</em><br/>
<br/>
...<br/>
<br/>
<em>I really need to find a list of the Siberian’s crimes, just to find out what I’ll be blamed for.</em><br/>
<br/>
Dropping the sign to the ground, I continue onward to the thrift store.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading!</p><p>To clear something up, I haven't read worm for a very long time and I genuinely forgot that siberian actually talked and now i've got a lot of interactions hinging on that fact so I guess it's an AU or something now idk</p><p>Next Chapter: I actually acquire some pants</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Clothes Make The Man -  Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thrift shop is pretty much exactly what I expected when I spotted the roadside sign, a squat grey building with the words; <em>Lifesavers Mission Thrift</em> mounted on the facade in huge, rusting letters. It looks exactly the same as any number of other thrift shops I've been to, save for a unique repeating butterfly design etched across the glass front.<br/>
<br/>
As I near the thrift shop, I note a few cars parked in the small lot in front of the building. <em>There are probably people in here</em>, I think to myself as I walk past them,<em> freverently trying to pretend they don’t exist, hoping I’ll just walk on right past them. And here I am walking right into their hiding place.<br/>
<br/>
Is it worth making innocent people fear for their lives just for some clothes?</em><br/>
<br/>
Well, where else would I get them? Would I break into someone's house and steal their clothes in front of them, violating the perceived security of their home? Should I go back to the mall that the Siberian just turned into a charnel house?<br/>
<br/>
<em>No, no this is the best choice because there is no goddamn way I am going back to that mall, not now, not <b>ever</b>.<br/>
<br/>
...<br/>
<br/>
And I’m not breaking into people's houses, not for this.<br/>
<br/>
I'm just going to go in, put on some clothes and then leave.<br/>
<br/>
simple</em><br/>
<br/>
I slow to a stop right in front of the door as I see myself faintly reflected in the tinted glass, an unfamiliar silhouette looking back at me with inhuman slitted eyes and long hair draped down their back and shoulders, so different from the short, curly hair I kept back in my old body.<br/>
<br/>
<em>God that feels weird to say.</em><br/>
<br/>
I’m also about a head or so shorter than I used to be, the height strip adhered to the side of the door telling me that I was definitely not 6’4” anymore, and in fact I did not even clear six feet now. It feels inexpressibly weird to be this short, something I haven't been since middle school.<br/>
<br/>
However, the most uncomfortable thing to confront in this impromptu mirror were the breasts, something I have been doing pretty well at adamantly ignoring for the last half hour. Steeling myself, I tentatively look down at my body for the first time and grimace, the sense of wrongness hitting me harder now that I have finally confronted it.<br/>
<br/>
This is not my body.<br/>
<br/>
Sure, I knew intellectually that I wasn’t the same as before as soon as I saw the monochrome, tiger striped hand, but I didn’t truly believe it, that i'm not who i've been for the last twenty years, that i'm in a woman's body, that every other thing that happened was real. That when I look in the mirror I see someone who’s fundamentally not me. It's probably not the right thing to focus on right now, seeing as I just killed someone, but I just can't stop staring at myself. Must be why I don’t feel all that weird being naked, it's not even my body to be embarrassed about anymore.<br/>
<br/>
<em>hey<br/>
<br/>
you're still butt-ass naked<br/>
<br/>
let’s table this breakdown, yeah?<br/>
<br/>
…<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, later, i'll think about this later. I’ll be fine.</em><br/>
<br/>
Taking a fortifying breath, I carefully push open the door in front of me using a bare minimum of force, and gingerly walk over the threshold, eyes scanning over the racks of disparate clothes and the shelves lining the walls, filled to the brim with a wide assortment of worn objects . The fluorescent lights lining the ceiling are off and the setting sun casts long, sharp shadows through the store. Suddenly irresistibly curious, I wave my hand through a sunbeam, feeling weirdly relieved as it casts a shadow.over the floor. It's nice to have some evidence of my existence beyond wanton destruction and death.<br/>
<br/>
Shaking my head bemusedly, I begin to walk over to the men's section before abruptly halting in my tracks.<br/>
<br/>
<em>oh yeah<br/>
<br/>
...<br/>
<br/>
Well, there's nothing stopping me from wearing men’s clothes.</em><br/>
<br/>
I begin moving again, this time much more assuredly, as I start looking through the racks, searching for some jeans that would fit me, a more difficult task than I initially anticipated, seeing as I, A) had drastically changed body shape and B) keep putting my hand directly through whatever I touch, tough fibers and metal hangers parting like air between my fingers as I fruitlessly try to grasp them.<br/>
<br/>
I take a step back and narrow my eyes, thinking hard. Well, the Siberian could make things as invulnerable as her somehow, so I should be able to do it as well. Slowly reaching out my hand towards some particularly tattered jeans, I touch them as lightly as I dared. Luckily, they stay in one piece as I try to shove the concept of toughness into it. Surprisingly, it actually works, the faded fabric imperceptibly changing color and suddenly feeling much more <em>real </em>in a way I can’t really explain.<br/>
<br/>
A broad smile splits my face, pleased at my first actual win that doesn't involve an absolute shit-ton of blood. I let go of the jeans, and they abruptly change back, becoming instantly <em>less </em>as I watch. I repeat this a few times more, with several different clothes around me and notice that as long as I'm touching it, I don’t have to keep it in mind to keep the inviolability up, just the initial mental command, which really takes a load off my mind, not having to keep thinking about how I really don’t want my clothes to explode off my body.<br/>
<br/>
Browsing the racks, I try to think of the best combination of clothes that will communicate that I am really trying not to murder people. There's not really a clear cut best choice for it though, just the rag-tag bunch of clothes you can find in any thrift shop. I stop searching after I realize I already know what I want, something that links me to my past, the same kind of clothes I've been wearing for years.<br/>
<br/>
First, I pull out a t-shirt depicting Legend in flight, helpfully labeled in a large, bombastic font. Finding jeans that actually fit takes longer than I care to admit but I finally find one at the end of the row right as I start eyeing the women's section. Finally, I pull a worn buffalo flannel over my shoulders, burying myself in the stale fabric, and feeling a tiny bit more like me, finding comfort in the ritual of dressing and actually being covered with clothes again.<br/>
<br/>
This is, of course, when a baby starts to cry in the back room, with great heaving sobs accompanied by frantic hushing by someone who sounds very young and very, very scared.<br/>
<br/>
I sag minutely, having briefly forgotten my circumstances yet again and turn to look towards the sound, the door to the back securely shut. I get a sudden impulse to open the door and apologize to them for scaring them, but what could I say, even if I could speak? Sorry for being a serial killer? Sorry for being in your hometown, murdering your heroes?<br/>
<br/>
<em>I should just go<br/>
<br/>
before they get any more afraid</em><br/>
<br/>
As I turn around to make good on my decision to leave, a horrifying, bassy roar rolls through the shop, rattling the windows in their panes, the sound unlike anything I've ever heard before. I’m not great at telling a sound’s direction, but even I can tell that it is far too close for comfort. Whipping around to confront the source of the unholy noise, I instead stare dumbfoundedly as a brightly costumed woman with hair made of fire smashes directly through the butterfly etched glass, sending jagged blades of glass scything into the shop, a few ricocheting off my newly acquired clothes as she bounces off of a register to land with an oof of escaping breath right in front of me.<br/>
<br/>
...<br/>
<br/>
<em>what the fuck</em><br/>
<br/>
She cranes her head up at me, already starting to speak in a bouncing southern accent;<br/>
<br/>
“Well, hey there Citizen! You’re gonna wan-”, her voice cutting off instantly as soon as she meets my eyes, her own widening as the blood drains from her face.<br/>
<br/>
<em>ah jeez</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading, I love y’alls discussions please keep it up.</p><p>I now know a lot of things about a thrift store in Alabama that I will never visit in my life.</p><p>Next time: An power struggle threatens to tear this family apart</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. When There’s A Wolf At The Door - Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Again, thanks to my beta AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As I stare down at the hero prostrated before me, another hideous, multi-tonal roar rattles the store, much clearer than before, the sound not having to pass through the now entirely broken glass front now littering the shop around me. I slowly tilt my head up towards the source and stop dead in shock as I see a titanic abomination shambling towards me.<br/><br/>Its enormous bulk, easily dwarfing the trucks parked outside, moves with a ponderous intent, carried forward by six, chitinous legs. Three long, abyssal tentacles sprout from its darkly scaled back, each one sinuously lashing through the air, extruding malice despite their seemingly erratic movements. A thickly muscled tail extends behind this unholy creature, sprouting immense spikes of chalk white bone drenched in thick red ichor. Eyes of every species and color spot its body, every single one trained on the jagged hole in the <em>Lifesavers Mission Thrift Store</em>.<br/><br/>It wears an unnervingly human, sadistically pleased smile, plainly visible upon its gaping crocodilian maw, which drips a vibrant green liquid which hisses viciously as it digs into the asphalt below. As it nears the shop, it slows to a languid stop and takes a seat, roaring out a challenge as inhuman as itself.<br/><br/><b>“COME OUT AND HURT ME, BONFIRE, I </b><em><b>BELIEVE </b></em><b>IN YOU!”</b><br/><br/><em>Crawler<br/><br/>it can't be anything else, just look at all those teeth</em><br/><br/>Casting my eyes down at the hero still prone at my feet, Bonfire doesn't even look back at Crawler’s booming challenge, still gazing up at me with horror that curdles my stomach with its intensity. Her hair, already at a dangerous orange-yellow, starts to burn hotter and whiter as she obviously tries to gather the will to rise and fight. Faintly, in the background, a baby continues to cry.<br/><br/><em>right, I can't let her get hurt, I can't let any of them get hurt when I could have stopped it.<br/><br/>how can I do that?</em><br/><br/>I can’t reason with him, he's an enormous serial killer who loves fighting and killing, I can’t drive him off, ‘cause he loves fighting and regenerates pretty much everything short of death, so I've got to kill him and kill him quick.<br/><br/><em>just kill Crawler<br/><br/>sounds simple enough,</em> I think, <em>just kill Crawler, a monster famed for his unkillability with your bare hands.<br/><br/>well, I am the goddamn Siberian, I should be able to do something, in fact I’m pretty sure that's what he’s been looking for, for quite a while as well.<br/><br/>I've just gotta find something to hit him with and keep him away from the building.</em><br/><br/>The second I finish my thought, Bonfire suddenly moves, a quick, economical jerk of a motion that gets her off of her stomach and back on to her feet, her back to the monster and her eyes fixed on me, face set in a mask of fearful determination. She doesn't see the immense bulk of Crawler rising far too quickly for something of his size and lunging towards her, feral rage showing on every inhuman line of his face in response to this apparent dismissal of his presence, the arrogant rejection of the danger he’s worked so hard to cultivate.<br/><br/><em>She’s got her priorities out of order, </em>I think in horror, as I see Crawler smash through the remains of the shattered window, destroying the shopfront under his enormous weight as he wrenches open his immense, saurian maw. Bonfire starts to turn, terror shining through her half mask, as she realizes it is far too late to do anything but scream into the gaping chasm of Crawlers gullet. The jaw snaps shut around her, jagged teeth stabbing inward as acid spittle starts to burn through the kevlar composite of her costume, hot rancid air surrounding her as Crawlers victorious cry fills her ears.<br/><br/><em>no!</em><br/><br/>Her scream peters out quickly, as she notices she hasn't died quite yet, the plunging teeth shattering around her now inviolable form, the caustic acid running down her body as if it was simple water. Crawler grunts confusedly, multitudes of eyes casting around the wrecked thrift store, searching for whatever took his rightfully earned kill. Bonfire, more confused than ever, feels the sensation of a woman's hand around her ankle. Briefly united in confusion, both villain and hero look down at my position, right hand desperately outstretched grasping onto Bonfire’s ankle, pushing invulnerability into her. I look up, and meet several sets of very confused and slightly offended eyes staring back at me.<br/><br/>“<b>SIBERIAN?</b>” Crawler grunts around a mouthful of hero, confusion masked behind sheer inhumanity “<b>THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?</b>”<br/><br/>I rise from the floor, trying to recapture some dignity, and forget about my hold on Bonfire as she abruptly falls on her face after I inconsiderately pull her legs out from under her, tearing half of Crawler’s lower jaw clean off his face in the process.<br/><br/>....<br/><br/><em>whoops</em><br/><br/>Crawler roars in agony and retreats back out into the parking lot, pained screams quickly transitioning to pleasure-filled moans as his jaw reforms, this time with noticeably sharper teeth and even darker scales, the division starkly visible even in the growing gloom of night. He fixes his multitude of eyes upon me once more, this time with a glint of something almost... anticipatory.<br/><br/><b>“WE </b><em><b>FINALLY </b></em><b>GOING TO FIGHT?”</b> He purrs with all the subtlety of a plane’s engine revving up. <b>“BEEN LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS SINCE I JOINED THE NINE. ONE ON ONE, MANO A MANO. NO JACK, NO BONESAW, JUST US”</b><br/><br/>As he speaks, he begins to circle me, titanic paws already festooned with massive talons unsheathing a second set situated inches above the other dripping with vibrantly pink venom, the tentacles along his back performing a grotesque pulsating motion, baring long, jagged hooks dripping an oily black liquid as they rise into an attack position.<br/><br/><em>yeah, this is probably the safest place for her to be</em><br/><br/>I step out of the store, still holding the practically petrified form of Bonfire by the ankle and set my face in my best impression of a bloodthirsty savage. Crawler meets my bared teeth with a howl and charges.<br/><br/><em>let's do this</em><br/><br/>I effortlessly swing Bonfire’s inviolable body up at Crawlers slavering head, aiming for the most likely place for his brain to be, and the quickest way to end this fight.<br/><br/>With agility belying his size, Crawler sinuously sidesteps the blow, his entire body swaying with his movement as he strikes at my head with a heavy tentacle.<br/><br/>Ducking, I inadvertently throw my hair in its path where it messily shreds itself in between the inviolate strands. The tentacle quickly snaps back into place behind Crawler’s back and visibly starts regenerating, the new growth looking less like flesh and bone and more like a subtraction upon reality itself.<br/><br/><em>I need to finish this before he evolves a countermeasure to me<br/><br/>probably why Manton didn't fight him, dumbass</em><br/><br/>Crawler screams in exultation and attacks again, this time charging straight towards me, jaws opened wide and claws tearing at the ground as he picks up speed.<br/><br/>I meet his charge at the last second with Bonfire, who has apparently decided to check back in to the situation by screaming very loudly and flaring her hair as hot and bright as she can. This turns out to be very hot, as the inside of Crawler’s mouth attests to, instantly starting to bubble as I swing her upwards through his incredibly thick skull.<br/><br/>The actinic glow of Bonfire’s hair stabs through the gloom of the night as she tears through Crawler’s head with a roar of superheated air. Her hair quickly loses the intense brightness of a welding torch and cools to a dull red as she looks up at me tiredly.<br/><br/>Crawler instantly slumps to the ground, his head split in half vertically, the inside of his skull visible from where I’m standing, his grey matter very clearly aflame. I grimace, disgusted by the sight, but keep my eyes on the body. Waiting for some hint of movement.<br/><br/><em>his corona pollentia might have been somewhere else<br/><br/>keep watching</em><br/><br/>My suspicions almost instantly prove correct, his body tensing, and before I can try to destroy more of his body, he leaps at least thirty feet backward and bellow’s barely intelligible words from his destroyed mouth.<br/><br/><b>“YES! GOOD! MORE!”</b><br/><br/>As he roars out his taunts, his mouth splits into pedipalps, and grow immense amounts of midnight black teeth that just <em>feel </em>wrong, the air around them seemingly shrieking in pain. The eyes I had just obliterated grow back as piercing white points on top of the void that is his new carapace.<br/><br/>I narrow my eyes.<br/><br/><em>this is not good<br/><br/>he's got a core<br/><br/>probably center mass<br/><br/>I just need to dodge the teeth that can probably kill me and tear him apart<br/><br/>easy-peasy</em><br/><br/>He charges me again, murderous intent visible as he gallops on six muscular legs towards me. His jaws open wide, glittering teeth and tiny eyes visible in his new maw. Those tiny eyes then widen as I heft the rusting pickup truck from next to me and bodily fling it at him.<br/><br/>Having never been in the position to throw a vehicle one handed, my aim is atrocious, the truck flying forward for a bare second before hitting the ground, promptly blowing out the brakes and causing the truck to flip end over end far away from the onrushing abomination, but the sparse seconds of distraction as Crawler’s head shifts over a few inches as he watches the car’s incredibly loud crash was enough for me to kick forward as hard as I could, shooting forward like a bullet and cannoning through the side of Crawler’s thickly muscled neck, narrowly avoiding the outstretched maw of the monstrous cape. As Crawler’s toughened skin and bones part like silk around our bodies, we carve a gargantuan hole through the trunk of the monstrous parahuman, obliterating pretty much everything vital from the neck down. The next few seconds prove to be incredibly confusing for the both of us, as all we could see was a rapidly revolving panorama of the night sky and asphalt before coming to a gradual stop.<br/><br/><em>jesus</em><br/><br/>As I crawl out from the hundred foot trench we had just made in the parking lot, road and the adjacent parking lot, I let go of Bonfire’s ankle, watching as she gasped for air, eyes wide as she stares up into the sky. Her hair was normal now, no longer made of dancing fire but rather an afro that looks to be dyed red. Oh wait, no, that's just blood.<br/><br/>I nod down at her and walk back to Crawler’s immense corpse and the truly huge blood splatter covering most of the remainder of the banged up parking lot.<br/><br/>I watched Crawler's body for a few minutes, but this time he did not deign to get back up, his face still turned away from the gaping hole in his neck, an vacant expression of shock present on his inhuman face. There wasn't much of a body left to be honest, just a massive exit wound.<br/><br/><em>goddamn that was a rush and a half</em><br/><br/>glad he’s dead though</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Crawler was real fun to write, and I actually love Bonfire I swear.</p>
<p>I've been thinking about beating a motherfucker with another motherfucker as the siberian for a very long time and I'm very glad I got to do it here.</p>
<p>Next time: human interaction???</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. My Friends, I’m Burning The Candle At Both Ends - Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>This has been one absolute fuck of a day</em>, I think, sprawled out on the curb outside of the thoroughly shattered facade of the thrift shop, hundreds of jagged shards of glass littering the pocketmarked parking lot in front of me, each one softly gleaming with the diseased orange glow of surrounding streetlights. It is truly night now, a massive full moon looming over the trees as I stare at the vacant eyes of the monster in front of me.<br/><br/>Crawler’s void blackened teeth still glimmer softly in the rancid orange of the streetlights, his split jaw slack as acid begins to eat through the asphalt under his enormous face. Toxic smoke starts rising up from under his body, each wildly different position, venom and acid from his body starting to eat through their surroundings, producing multicolored gases that mingle in the air over his corpse, floating slowly into the sky overhead.<br/><br/><em>that's probably not great for anyone’s lungs, </em>I think, transfixed by the eerily beautiful sight as the pillar drifts away, dispersing into the air.<br/><br/>Staring into the sky, I begin to think about Crawler’s death, I don’t feel any guilt, nor any true remorse over what I've just done, and that's what truly bothers me right now. I can feel bad about Manton of all people, but not Crawler? Why can’t I muster anything but satisfaction at his death? Maybe it's because he’s so monstrous I can’t even see him as human, or because he tried to kill me first. I mean, I killed Manton in cold blood! There was absolutely no way he could hurt me but I walked up to him and put my arm through his face anyway!<br/><br/>I know Crawler would have gladly killed me, Bonfire and anyone else he could find. I think anyone would agree that I had good reason to kill him, provided they didn’t immediately run away from me first.<br/><br/><em>hey now</em><br/><br/>I’ve just got to keep optimistic about my situation, Bonfire’s still alive, if somewhat dizzy, and the people hiding in the shop weren't messily eaten by Crawler. All good things!<br/><br/>Speaking of people in the shop, I haven't heard any crying for the last while, and if I had to guess, I’d say that whoever had been huddling in the backroom had booked it after the screaming started. God, that must have been one hell of a thing to listen to. A car-crash, fuel-air explosion and steroid fueled bear fight all rolled into one immensely chaotic, minute long conflict. If I were them, I would have run the second Crawler started talking about fighting the Siberian, but hey, what do I know?<br/><br/>I’m not going to try and go find them, as I feel like that would turn out badly for everyone involved, so all I can do is wish them luck, and hope they don’t get caught by another member of the Nine.<br/><br/>As I look back down at Crawler’s quickly decaying body, his toughened flesh and bone giving way to preternaturally strong acids, I notice those teeth again, stubbornly not dissolving in the pool of vitriolic green acid they now find themselves in.<br/><br/>Overcome with curiosity, I walk over and gingerly fish one of the teeth out of the muck, the unnaturally black material frictionlessly sliding out of the pond, carrying no residue from its stay in the horrifically corrosive acid. It's an odd thing, this tooth, almost the length of my hand but as narrow as a finger, it seems more like a spire of obsidian than any naturally produced tooth, carrying with it a razor sharp edge that almost seems machine made.<br/><br/><em>would this have actually hurt me?<br/><br/>it certainly looks dangerous enough</em><br/><br/>Testing the edge is a no-brainer, I’m not going to be able to carry these with me and I would certainly like to know if someone is going to try to kill me with them later.<br/><br/>I gingerly place the edge on my outstretched pinky and carefully draw the tooth across.<br/><br/>Nothing happens.<br/><br/><em>alright i'm gonna have to try harder than that</em><br/><br/>Once more I place the edge on my pinky, this time drawing it across much harder, pushing it down towards my skin and I am rewarded with a somewhat distant pain. I wince, peering down at my finger and seeing a bead of onyx black liquid bead up over the cut, which promptly reseals as soon as I release the pressure.<br/><br/>...<br/><br/><em>huh<br/><br/>that’s… interesting...</em><br/><br/>I honestly did not expect Crawler to pull something like this, but I guess adaption is kind of his thing. I look back over at the deepening hole in the asphalt and at the dozens of teeth still sitting there, silently mocking me with their existence.<br/><br/><em>hmm<br/><br/>that might be a problem<br/><br/>should i try to get rid of them?<br/><br/>stuff my pockets full and bury them in the forest?</em><br/><br/>…<br/><br/><em>nah<br/><br/>if I attract attention towards them by trying to remove them, they will absolutely be used against me<br/><br/>just pretend it didn't happen and walk away.</em><br/><br/>Nodding affirmatively, I tuck the tooth into my pocket, something to use later, far away from watching eyes, whether they be from orbit or peeking out from behind closed windows..<br/><br/>After all, I haven't had a haircut in forever, and I am absolutely not going to learn to live with waist length hair, especially not hair that annihilates anything it touches. If for nothing else, it’ll feel nice.<br/><br/>I’m going to need to bury the hair afterward as well, just to make sure that no one can use it. Looking at you, Bonesaw.<br/><br/>But that comes later, Now comes the part I’ve been dreading, trying to communicate with Bonfire, the woman I just used as a bludgeon to kill Crawler. What a great way to start our relationship.<br/><br/><em>calling it now, this will not turn out well</em><br/><br/>Walking over to the end of the truly impressive trench we made through the road, I spot Bonfire’s hair first, apparently recovered from the fight and now cheerfully crackling above her head. Being the first time I’ve actually looked at it for any length of time, it's very interesting to watch, the first parahuman power I've seen in person that has not been used in an attempt to kill me. It undulates unnaturally, forming a loose cyclone of fire that stretches a few feet above her head. It feels tense somehow, but also like it is desperately trying not to look like a threat. Whatever it’s doing, it looks really cool.<br/><br/>The fire frames Bonfire’s half mask, obscuring her features from the bridge of her nose down, swooping under her eyes to curl around her cheekbones. It keeps her eyes revealed, which are now widened in fright as she spots my face appear over the lip of the trench she is laying in, my burning yellow eyes and distinctive monochrome features telling her exactly who I am, but as the rest of my body comes into view, that outright terror quickly turns into befuddlement as she looks down at my clothes, a clear feeling of confusion visible even through her mask as her eyes flick from my face to my clothes, trying to make sense of the tableau before her.<br/><br/>I smile in satisfaction.<br/><br/><em>good, this means that Manton probably never tried this<br/><br/>might make it easier to draw divisions between the two of us</em><br/><br/>My smile does not seem to reassure her however, as she lets out a squeak while somehow paling even further.<br/><br/>“Oh God, please don’t hurt me”<br/><br/>Instantly, I stop smiling and turn away from her, trying not to look as intimidating, as I surreptitiously run my tongue over my new teeth, wincing as sharpened points make themselves known.<br/><br/><em>alright no smiling</em><br/><br/>I turn back towards Bonfire and wave slowly, transitioning into a slow point towards the other side of the trench.<br/><br/>She nods rapidly as she figures out what I’m trying to say.<br/><br/>“Yep, get out of the trench, good idea, please don’t eat me” she quickly says, clambering out of the trench clumsily, clearly still woozy from the probable concussion from hitting a plate glass window at forty miles an hour as well as being used as a flail.<br/><br/>Once she manages to climb up and stand, slightly swaying, at the edge of the trench I give her a big thumbs up, trying to smile without showing my teeth at the same time.<br/><br/>She eyes my thumb suspiciously and slowly puts up one of her own, shakily smiling as she does so.<br/><br/>“So Crawler’s dead, that's good, thanks for doing that, i'm not sure why but i'm not complaining, i'm not sure if you care but he's kind of a dick, killed a bunch of people here a few years ago, he probably told you about them but you probably just laughed right?”<br/><br/>Blinking at the outpouring of words and the disconcerting maniacal laugh that follows, I carefully sit down on the ledge, gesturing vaguely at her to sit as well.<br/><br/><em>wonder where her accent went</em><br/><br/>She is on the ledge before I can finish the motion, nodding her head rapidly as she settles, still speaking quickly, as if I would kill her if she stopped.<br/><br/>“My name’s Bonfire, I don’t know if you knew that I mean Crawler did yell it but you might not have remembered i’m very forgettable you know, a real D-lister cape I don’t even know why Crawler wanted to kill me anyway it’s not like I could hurt him maybe that's why he wanted to kill me you’d know better though wouldn't you thou-”<br/><br/>I wave again, causing her to rear backward, hair flaring momentarily before she seizes control, freezing in her tracks. Silently hissing, I gesture for her to slow down. Bonfire nods again, her hair cascading around her head, showering sparks over her shoulders while she stares back at me. Sweat drips down her face, and I have a sinking feeling it’s not coming from the fire.<br/><br/>Carefully, I make an expansive gesture, pointing to the area around me, before sketching an over-exaggerated confused expression.<br/><br/>“The Mission Shop?” she asks carefully. I shake my head and make the gesture again, making the circle noticeably bigger.<br/><br/>“The... city?” Bonfire tries again, more tentatively this time.<br/><br/>I nod eagerly, and she nervously smiles.<br/><br/>“Well, we’re in Auburn, Alabama, about an hour east of Montgomery an-” She stops suddenly, her eyes widening in surprise and horror, and she scrambles away from the lip of the trench, fleeing from me, as my expression changes to something I cannot see but is enough for her to start sprinting away, down the road and off towards the mall looming in the distance.<br/><br/>I barely notice her flight, sat there in the warm summer night, my mind preoccupied with the news I had just received. Alabama. I mean, I knew that I wasn't where I was before, but still. Alabama. I had moved hundreds of miles and across dimensions in the span of hours and been placed in a new body against my will. These events of the last few hours all pouring into me all at once, triggered by a reminder that I am not where I was, I am not who I am and there is no way to return.<br/><br/>Not for the last time, I vigorously wish I could just sigh, just to relieve some of the stress building inside my chest.<br/><br/><em>goddamn, what am I going to do now?</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I had written out an entire interlude with Bonfire and how she got where she is now but I dropped it because it was the most boring thing I have ever written. A lot of exposition about things I don’t really want to expose and this conversation would have just been; “Bonfire is terrified”</p>
<p>Anyway, I feel like this is better than that, and hey look, an interaction that didn't end in blood! Nice!</p>
<p>Next time - bad shit probably</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Privacy Is A Privilege, Not A Right - Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>All right, I need to kill Jack Slash.</em><br/>
<br/>
This explosive declaration is met with silence, which is very fitting as I thought it in the comfort of my own head and in the middle of some particularly thick woods. Frankly, if the proclamation had been met with anything at all, I would be very afraid.<br/>
<br/>
I had left Crawler behind some fifteen minutes ago, as hanging around a giant dissolving corpse was getting increasingly uncomfortable, especially after the assorted kinds of acids and venom's trapped within his body started reacting. None of them outright exploded, but it was not a pleasant sight to see his body bloat like a hot-air balloon.<br/>
<br/>
I’m not exactly pleased about just leaving all those teeth laying there in a random parking lot, but the more I think about it, the worse an idea trying to do something with them seems. If I try to hide them, someone will find them and wonder why I tried to hide them away. If I try to bring them with me, I will cut myself to ribbons trying to hold an absolute shitload of knives which would obviously give everything away. In all, just walking away and fervently pretending nothing ever happened is looking more and more beneficial to my long term health.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, if the Nine are all dead, they can’t try and kill me with them, can they. The PRT is probably not going to try and shiv me with Crawler’s fuckin teeth, so it’ll probably just end up in a storage site alongside a whole lot of other stuff. Hopefully. God, I hope that's what happens and not that they give it to Chevalier and he hits me with a sword the size of a goddamn building.<br/>
<br/>
Anyway, the woods are exactly what I expect, no weird species that I can’t identify or killer squirrels dancing through the trees, just a regular old American south forest, albeit with some trash littering the forest floor just to tell me that; yes, I am near civilization. I have no idea what I’m walking towards, having dipped into the woods behind the thrift shop, genuinely hoping that I don’t run into those people I probably scared off about a half an hour ago.<br/>
<br/>
<em>they’re probably long gone<br/>
<br/>
I would be</em><br/>
<br/>
Anyway, back to the premeditated murder of Jack Slash. I don’t like him, mostly because of the nihilistic serial killing and the fact he is going to literally end the world. Killing him will be a net good for the world and he won’t set Scion on a murderous rampage early. I mean, Scion will still try and commit omnicide, but at least Jack won't get the satisfaction of starting it.<br/>
<br/>
<em>wonder if earth is in the crossfire<br/>
<br/>
...<br/>
<br/>
of the giant... omnicidal... space... whale<br/>
<br/>
…<br/>
<br/>
wow my life got weird quick</em><br/>
<br/>
Unfortunately, I have no idea where he could be, as I've never been in this city in my life and Jack is not exactly broadcasting his location directly to me at all times. Which is quite a pity to be honest, it’d make this a lot quicker. The plan once I catch him is simple, throw myself at him and watch him explode. Don’t listen to him and try not to let him speak. I don’t think he could do anything to hurt me but giving him time to find something that can is not exactly the smartest thing I could do.<br/>
<br/>
<em>wonder what i'm broadcasting<br/>
<br/>
sincerely hope it’s not everything i've been thinking or Jack’s never going to get close</em><br/>
<br/>
As I walk through the forest, trying not to accidentally cut down a tree with my hair again, I decide that enough is enough. This hair has to go. It was alright for Manton to have this shit, ‘cause he didnt care if it destroyed everything around him but I do. I’m not trying to accidently behead someone because I forgot that I have three feet of hair swinging around. I look around, squinting through the surprisingly light forest, the light of the full moon overhead casting shafts of silvery moonlight through meager gaps in the canopy, the ambient glow being enough to see by.<br/>
<br/>
I pull Crawler’s tooth from my pocket, a pitch black spire of obsidian bone, each of its three edges whispering as it cuts through the air. I eye it warily, looking at one of the very few things on the planet that can penetrate my skin, and slowly raise it in front of my face. Grabbing one long strand of monochrome hair, I pull it taunt, and bring the edge of the tooth down, severing the hair in one fell swoop. The hair dangles from my fingers, glimmering sofly in the moonlight as I set the tooth carefully on the ground. I loop the strand around my fingers and look around for a suitably sized tree to test it on.<br/>
<br/>
Finding a sapling no more than two inches thick, I sidle over and quickly garrote it with the hair.<br/>
<br/>
…<br/>
<br/>
<em>well now I just feel foolish</em><br/>
<br/>
The hair had almost instantly snapped, the force of my superhuman strength pulling it apart around the sapling. I stand there looking down at the now separated strands, momentarily confused at the sight, then smiling toothily, no longer moderating my grin to keep someone from panicking.<br/>
<br/>
<em>guess it doesn't keep the inviolability then<br/>
<br/>
very nice</em><br/>
<br/>
Absentmindedly gathering my hair into a long ponytail, I debate the best way to cut it, after all, I’m pretty sure that it won't grow back. It’s probably not the best idea, cutting hair blindly in a dark forest, without a mirror, but I’m not really capable of caring at the moment, consumed by the simple desire to look less like the Siberian, and to stop randomly cutting shit down. Once is impressive, but any more and it starts to get real dangerous to anything and everything around me..<br/>
<br/>
I briefly consider a short cut, hair somewhere around my ears, just to leave options open for me later, but decide to cut it all off, to shave my entire head the best I can. It’s not going to be neat, but I don’t care. I need it off. I need to look as little like the Siberian as I possibly can. Both for separation from her crimes and my own self image.<br/>
<br/>
I place the tooth next to my ear, angled to cut along the side of my head and pull, the blade passing through my long bedraggled hair as if it was nothing more than air, the deliberate action emanating a tearing sound, like that of scissors gliding through paper. Long strands of hair start to pile at my still bare feet, as I switch hands, beginning on the other side. Then the back. Then the top. After a few minutes of cutting, I run my hands over the uneven fuzz that remains, smiling in satisfaction as I return the tooth to my pocket<br/>
<br/>
I can only hope I didn't just give myself the ugliest haircut in the world right before murdering the shit out of Jack Slash on live TV.<br/>
<br/>
A pile of monochrome hair sits on the ground behind me, stripes of black and white still visible on its surface, if somewhat jumbled from the fall to the ground. I poke it with a nearby branch and smile as the branch remains stubbornly intact.<br/>
<br/>
<em>good</em><br/>
<br/>
A hole is quickly dug, an easy task when I can just punch the ground and a hole magically appears. I quickly shovel the hair into the pit and fill it up, hiding my castoff hair from view, hopefully until Bonesaw is dead or at the very least not able to make homicidal clones from it.<br/>
<br/>
I stand up, pantomiming a huff of satisfaction as I survey my work.<br/>
<br/>
<em>back to walking</em> I think, turning back to my prior path and taking a step forward before abruptly noticing the figure perched on a log before me, so deathly still I had subconsciously classified him as part of the foliage.<br/>
<br/>
<em>ah shit not again</em><br/>
<br/>
A bone white face peers at me, vague impressions of a nose, eyes and mouth carved into hard plastic, halfway suggesting an aristocratic face imposing strict judgement on all before him. Long spindly limbs latch onto the log he sits upon, his sharp fingers digging deep scratches into the wood as he looks at me through invisible eyes.<br/>
<br/>
<em>mannequin</em><br/>
<br/>
I tilted my head to the right.<br/>
<br/>
<em>did he see that?</em><br/>
<br/>
He tilted his left.<br/>
<br/>
<em>does he suspect?</em><br/>
<br/>
With a start, his leg blurs into motion, a tiny knife sliding out of a near invisible slot in his heel to fly directly at my eye, ricocheting off into the undergrowth before I could even begin to flinch.<br/>
<br/>
<em>yes he did</em><br/>
<br/>
Seeing the knife whiff, Mannequin abruptly performs a picture perfect backflip off the rotting log, simultaneously catapulting it directly into my face, the soft wood producing a wet crunch as it splits around my nose. For the next second I am blind, frantically tearing the remains of the log from my face, and the second I can see clearly again, I spot Mannequin lunging at me, long fingers outstretched towards my pocket and the tooth inside. I desperately throw a leg out, catching him in the arm just as he gets a finger on the tooth, the impact shattering the dense plastic of his armor and exposing the most intricate circuitry I’ve ever seen, right before it too breaks under the force of the blow.<br/>
<br/>
Unfortunately for me, the finger must have had some form of grip as the force of the impact tears the tooth from my pocket, still attached to the finger even as it flies away, his arm still tentatively connected to the rest of his body by a long chain.<br/>
<br/>
Mannequin follows the arm’s decent, moving with the force of the blow and catching it with his other hand before it drops the tooth. His damaged arm detaches with a clunk from his main body, falling heavily to the earth as he passes the tooth to his undamaged hand, waggling his cruelly pointed finger at me, and cocking his head in a grotesque parody of disappointment.<br/>
<br/>
<em>oh fuck off</em><br/>
<br/>
I scowl, not without a trace of fear in my expression, as I realize something. This is no enraged beast bent on destruction, this is a machine made to kill. I’m going to do better than Crawler or I am absolutely going to die.<br/>
<br/>
<em>at least I’m not trying to protect anyone now, </em>I think grimly<br/>
<br/>
A hatch on Mannequin’s chest suddenly pops open, revealing a small canister that promptly explodes outwards, instantly filling the area with dense yellow smoke. <em>I suspect it’s poison, I don’t see why he would use i- </em>, the half-baked thought evaporating as his inhuman form materializes out from the smog, knife leading towards my head<br/>
<br/>
I desperately dodge to my right, plowing straight through the tree beside me, it’s collapsing boughs shielding me from harm as the strike falls short. He breaks off, quickly disappearing in his trademark boneless fashion, right back into the smoke.<br/>
<br/>
<em>right, get out of the smoke, make him approach you</em><br/>
<br/>
I set my heels against the soft forest loam and kick off powerfully, shooting backwards into the forest behind me, quickly turning the immense momentum into a sloppy somersault, just barely ending up on my feet, right in time to see Mannequin’s pale form sprint deeper into the forest, away from me.<br/>
<br/>
<em>what?</em><br/>
<br/>
...<br/>
<br/>
<em>oh shit<br/>
<br/>
he’s going to tell jack!<br/>
<br/>
CATCH HIM<br/>
<br/>
NOW</em><br/>
<br/>
I run.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay so there was a big discussion on whether or not Crawler’s teeth were a good move in the story. I get where a lot of y’all are coming from and I agree that I probably made it too heavy handed. However, this is my first story and I have absolutely no idea where this is going. Every chapter is written in a day with almost no planning for the overall story arc. I’m honestly surprised I got this far without something like that happening.</p><p>I made the teeth a thing because I needed something to cut the Siberian’s hair, not as a plot device for later, so this chapter is kind of a surprise for me as well.</p><p>I do enjoy the discussions and I feel like the criticism makes me a better writer. Thanks for reading and I hope y’all continue to enjoy the story.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Mind Over Matter - Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Digging my bare feet into the soft earth of the forest floor, I launch myself forward once more, the trees blurring around me into streaks of silvery green charging directly into the yellow fog. As I do so, the acrid smell of the smoke digs itself into my nostrils, adding to my disorientation. Momentarily blind, Emerging from the other side of the noxious cloud, I blink rapidly, scanning the forest for Mannequin’s distinctive figure.<br/><br/>My gaze sharpens, spotting him effortlessly weaving through the forest, acrobatically parkouring through dimly lit trees, with each of his three limbs moving in an amazing display of coordination, pulling off flips and rolls as he goes. He stares back at me, his head having turned fully one-eighty degrees around, and offers a taunting wave, the tooth twinkling forebodingly in his hand.<br/><br/>Focused upon him, I notice the pine tree far too late, smashing though its aged trunk with an enormous snap, sending it toppling to the ground, hundreds of pine needles scattering through the air as pine sap sluggishly bleeds from the newly created stump. The surprise of the sudden impact into the tree has me trip over my own two feet, the momentum carrying me through the air, not slowed in the least by the sudden collision, and proceeding to crash through another two trees before hitting the ground, skidding through ten feet of leaf litter and slowing to a stop.<br/><br/><em>gah</em><br/><br/>Stumbling up from the ungainly heap I landed in, absolutely covered in leaves, sap and dirt, I hastily regain my footing, casting my eyes about, hoping he hadn’t just given me the slip.<br/><br/><em>where is he?<br/><br/>wher- there!</em><br/><br/>He’s much farther away now, still seamlessly moving forward, his gait unconcerned with the uneven forest floor underfoot. He seems to be studying the tooth, slowly turning it end over end as he holds it up to the impression of eyes on his face. He nods once, and accelerates, somehow increasing his already impressive speed.<br/><br/><em>that's not good</em><br/><br/>Throwing myself into a sprint once more, my legs pumping, my nonexistent lungs trying to exist just to feel the burn as I run towards his retreating form, trying not to fall over again.Hurtling forward, I juke through the crowded underbrush and around trees as I try to keep him in my line of sight, even as he puts more trees in between him and me.<br/><br/><em>he’s getting away!<br/><br/>what if...</em><br/><br/>Gritting my teeth, I veer towards a tree I was about to go around, setting my shoulders while bracing my arms in an X, preparing to leap into the thick trunk. With a distinct lack of feedback, I smash straight through, the deafening crack of an aged tree exploding rolling throughout the forest once more. I hit the ground running on the other side among an expanding cloud of splinters, nearly toppling as I adjust from the lack of expected resistance before righting myself and continuing my charge.<br/><br/><em>nice!<br/><br/>now do it again</em><br/><br/>Mannequin’s head revolves toward me, body still continuing his unsettling sprint, and spots my charge, enormous trees falling in my wake as I careen through them, accelerating towards him with murder in my eyes and a wide grin on my face.<br/><br/>He snaps his head back around and changes course, heading for the faint glow of streetlights we can both see in the distance. I know I'm outpacing him, the trees on either side blurring as I close, his silhouette getting closer and closer until I’m right behind him, readying a final lunge that will hopefully kill him in one fell stroke. However, as soon as I commit to the pounce, he proceeds to perform a series of very unwelcome things to me and my immediate vicinity.<br/><br/>First, he tosses the tooth off to the side, the brief whisper of tortured air drawing my eyes away for a split second as it sails past, and once I return my attention to Mannequin, he is already performing the second unwelcome action, running straight up the trunk of a tree and backflipping over me in a single, beautifully executed motion. I, unfortunately, do not see more than a millisecond of this as I immediately plow into that same tree, reducing the trunk to splinters as I try to reverse my forward momentum, scrabbling at the ground as I go, my fingers tearing deep furrows into soft soil, hastily arresting my wild skid.<br/><br/>The moment of inattention costs me, as when I look up from the ground, I’m staring into the open barrel of Mannequin’s remaining arm, his hand folded up and over his forearm, right as it belches out a plume of thick, greasy fire, which instantly sticks to my face and effectively blinds me.<br/><br/>My immediate instinct when being bathed in what I can only guess is napalm betrays me, my silent scream only inviting the torrent of fire inside my mouth, where it quietly pricks at my tongue in a sensation quite a lot like cinnamon flavored pop rocks.<br/><br/><em>behind you!</em><br/><br/>Scrubbing harshly at my eyes, I fold my legs under my body and kick off with all my might, launching myself into the air, away from the murderer’s weapon. I don’t manage a perfect arc, instead exploding upward and to the right, directly into the boughs of a tree that manages very little resistance to my flight. Before I can fall through entirely, I quickly grab a branch and reinforce it, leaving me dangling ten feet off of the ground, right in the middle of a tree that, from what I understand, is currently on fire.<br/><br/>Holding tightly onto the branch with one hand and scrubbing at one eye with the other, I hang there for a moment, some ten feet off the ground, trying to listen for some movement beyond the eager crackling of the fire surrounding me. Piece by piece, the jelly-like flames get flicked off my face, flying off onto the ground below. After a few seconds, I tentatively open an eye, and save for some napalm still sticking to my cheeks, the immediate area around my eye is clear, allowing me to glimpse the picturesque woodland erupting in flame around me as well as the completely unscathed figure of Mannequin standing in the middle of the inferno, having clearly just hurled the abyssal tooth directly at my heart.<br/><br/>I see the spire of bone fly towards me, quickly growing from a distant black speck to defined blade in a matter of milliseconds, time slowing as I watch my doom come forward in mute horror, my arm just starting to move as I hopelessly try to intercept the missle.<br/><br/><em>NO!<br/><br/><br/>and<br/><br/>it<br/><br/>Hits<br/><br/>Me</em><br/><br/><br/><br/>And sinks right through my skin, eliciting a brief, ice-cold pain, as it completely disappears into my chest, leaving nothing but a neat triangular hole filled with void right above my heart, having pierced straight through my clothes and leaving oily black blood dripping down under my clothes.<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>...<br/><em><br/>Huh</em><br/><br/>The hole in my chest gently weeps ichor, nowhere near as much as a human body would but definitely still recognizable as bleeding. I tentatively poke my finger into it, feeling nothing but an icy chill lying underneath my skin, hastily pulling it out as the wound begins to heal, exactly as it had before. I bring my blackened finger up to my face and, in a moment of childish curiosity, stick it in my mouth.<br/><br/><em>tastes like….<br/><br/>crude oil?<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>why did i do this, it literally tastes like death</em><br/><br/>Mannequin looks about as confused as I do, his arm frozen in a mockery of a pitcher's throw, looking at me with an utterly expressionless face. Not like he has any expressions any other time, but still.<br/><br/><em>right, Mannequin<br/><br/>fuck i'm exhausted<br/><br/>And there's still, what, seven left?<br/><br/>jesus</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Man fuck these teeth</p>
<p>Basically, the teeth were a first draft from Crawler, they’re not all that great but I really believed they were going to kill me, letting them cut me. Mind over matter, yeah?</p>
<p>Anyway, i'm not incredibly happy with this chapter and I think making the teeth in the first place was a mistake, it wasn't the right place for them and wasn't the type of story I needed to tell at that point.</p>
<p>Hopefully y'all enjoy it tho, and I might take a break for a few days and lay down some plans for the next arc so this doesnt end up happening again</p>
<p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. You May Hide The Fire, But Never The Smoke - Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The woods burn. The trees surrounding us are alight, the sap within detonating like gunshots as it boils, staccato cracks underlying the basso roar of the flames. The once contained fire has spread, the napalm clearly having gone out of control. Thick choking smoke pours into the sky, casting an immense orange glow hundreds of feet into the air. Neither Mannequin nor I make any note of this, each fixated on each other. Waiting for whatever action the other will perform next.<br/><br/>He slowly tenses his long articulated fingers, absolutely nothing else in his inhuman body moving as he watches me, presumably tracing my changed features, my shaved head, my clothes, looking for some way to escape, to win. He is ready to move, but unwilling to begin.<br/><br/>In turn, I think about who he is, what he’s done, what he’s denied this world. It's a very short thought, as I quickly notice that he still has vivid red liquid smeared on his fingers, no doubt from someone who was good, someone who wanted to change the world for the better.<br/><br/><em>he dies<br/><br/>now</em><br/><br/>Unclenching my fingers, I let go of the branch and he bolts, his chained together form completely abandoning any semblance of humanity he once had as a multitude of blades extend from his figure, digging deeply into his surroundings and propelling him forward. His legs extend, long cables spooling out as his stride lengthens, the blades in his arms digging into the trees surrounding him as he hurls himself forward. It’s a horrible, desperate flight for survival and it’s far too late.<br/><br/>He’s still only a few dozen feet away when I hit the ground at a run, my bare feet digging furrows into burnt ground, embers scattering as I kick off into my own desperate sprint. Mannequin is very fast, and he has a lot of tricks, but he can’t outrun me.<br/><br/>Gaining on him is not the correct terminology for what I do next, and neither is overtaking him or catching up. These make it sound like there was a contest, that there was another way it could have happened. No, I launched myself forward at around forty miles an hour, feet practically flying over the ground as I leaped towards his retreating form.<br/><br/>He tries his best to jump over my lunge, his legs grotesquely extending further as he attempts another backflip, but falls short, the durable metal and plastic composing his knees, shins and feet shattering into thousands of tiny intricate pieces upon contact with my body. The force from the impact sends him uncontrollably flipping into the air, end over end before slamming face first into the ground below.<br/><br/>To his credit, he shakes it off quickly, and as I rise out of the second trench I've found myself in today, I hear a now distinctive clunk as he detaches his legs from the rest of his body. As I walk my way over, he starts pulling himself away with a single arm, long knives extending from his fingers digging into the earth, and if i'm being honest, doing him far more harm than good.<br/><br/>Reaching down to grab him, he pulls out one last trick, shooting his remaining arm off towards a distant tree with the roar of a very compact rocket, a long span of cable quickly spooling out behind it as it flies.<br/><br/><em>nope</em><br/><br/>I cut the cord with an errant flick of my wrist, the braided metal parting around my hand like a razor sharp knife through twine. Mannequin imperceptibly sags, laying limbless on the ground before me as the forest burns down around us. His head swivels around his neck, staring up at me from his prone position. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't try anything else, he just looks at me, imperceptible eyes staring deep into my soul<br/><br/><em>should I… kill him?<br/><br/>I mean he’s not going to able to tinker anymore<br/><br/>I should…..<br/><br/>…<br/><br/><br/>no, he’s done too much, he might have been broken but I can’t trust that he won’t kill someone else if I let him go<br/><br/>I've got to do this</em><br/><br/>I kneel beside him placing my clawed hand on his still immaculate plastic back, noting several concealed seams in his shell. I look into his false eyes once more and watch for any semblance of a reaction. There is none, just staring directly at me. I firm my resolve and push my hand down, and as I do I could swear he inclined his head in mute approval.<br/><br/>The dull crunch of collapsing plastic and squish of exploding meat is swallowed by the roaring fires surrounding us, the snapping of his few remaining bones masked by boiling sap popping within the trees. His head falls to the ground and does not move again.<br/><br/><em>damn<br/><br/>…<br/><br/>good luck Alan</em><br/><br/>I stand up beside his corpse and look around, at the sight that I had hoped I would never see, the interior of a wildfire, the natural vaulted ceiling of a forest falling apart under the burning heat of fire. It’s a beautiful sight to be sure but undeniably destructive at the same time. An enormous tree crashes to the ground, its burning boughs settling around me as I stand there motionless.<br/><br/><em>guess I am really invulnerable, </em>I think, holding a branch as the flames start to consume it. The fire licks at my hand, triggering nothing but a sensation of heat, yet none of he expected pain.<br/><br/><em>could have been worse, at least i‘m not in Svetta’s body, at least I still have control<br/><br/>it could have been so very much worse<br/><br/>at least I have control</em><br/><br/>…<br/><br/>…<br/><br/><em>ALRIGHT<br/><br/>think about all that shit later while i'm not in the middle of a fire, yeah?</em><br/><br/>Scrubbing my hands through the ash filled stubble masquerading as my hair, I turn around and look towards the direction Mannequin had been sprinting. I’m not sure where it’s heading but I don’t know where else I would go.<br/><br/>So I walk away, out through the fire and away from his body, off towards the dull orange streetlights visible in the distance.<br/><br/>As I get closer, the dim glow gradually turns into a much clearer picture. It's a highway, completely barren of anything, no cars, no police, no fire trucks pass through this stretch of road, just me. I walk into the median, standing in the ragged grass choked in cigarette butts and look towards where I came from. A vast plume of smoke stretches above me, illuminated from below with a sickly orange glow. In the distance, I can see a matching plume of smoke illuminated by city lights drift along in the wind, the sound of distant screams wafting through the air as I watch.<br/><br/><em>...<br/><br/>I need to check it out<br/><br/>I need to help</em><br/><br/>I begin to jog towards the other fire, almost immediately skidding to a stop as I see a small herd of deer picking their way across the road less than a hundred feet in front of me. One of them, a buck with a huge rack of bloody antlers stares directly at me, wide eyes alight with a sickly green glow reflecting from the streetlight above. He hisses, low and threatening, as he follows the rest of his family across, keeping eyes locked firmly on my form before disappearing into the forest across the highway.<br/><br/><em>...<br/><br/>god I don’t even know, just keep going</em><br/><br/>I restart my jog, quickly turning it into a loping run, bounding over the tarmac of the highway as I head towards the plume of smoke. I know what I will likely find, but I need to do it, I don’t know what else I could do.<br/><br/><em>I’ll figure it out later, just focus on the now</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m going to be honest, a deer has actually done this exact thing to me before so I wanted to put it in the story. I'm just putting it out there, this is personal experience, not a bonesaw thing. Maybe.</p>
<p>Also I changed chapter 8 around so the SI actually shave his entire head instead of just a mild haircut. I feel like it fits the theme of changing everything about what the Siberian was, and is a lot more drastic.</p>
<p>Hope you enjoyed it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Fire Knows Nothing Of Mercy Auburn, AL - July 21st, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My grin widens as I run faster and faster, my stride lengthening, the wind flowing through my buzzed hair as I fly down the highway, bare feet pounding on the tarmac, the rough surface nothing but a distant sensation. It’s incredibly exhilarating, running at this speed, as fast as any car, quick flashes of orange light dimly lighting the surrounding trees, serving as waypoints in my journey.<br/><br/>Running still feels good, the pumping of my arms coupled with the easy cadence of my legs forms the satisfying motion of a good run. There is no real discomfort, no muscles screaming for relief, no aching lungs gasping for air and no twinging joints begging for rest, just the enjoyment of movement for movement’s sake.<br/><br/>It's a good reprieve. A good way to get my mind off the reality of my present situation and that I just killed several people. My smile fades as my thoughts turn inward. I would doubt anyone would find it wrong that I did, they were all monsters in some way or another, all murderers multiple times over, but the fact remains. I’ve killed three people in the last few hours.<br/><br/>William Manton<br/><br/>Ned <em>something</em><br/><br/>Alan Gramme<br/><br/>They were terrible people, evil even, but I still killed them and…. I-I really don’t want to do it again. Ending people like that just doesn't sit right with me, and I keep seeing their faces, their empty eyes staring at me. I know I should kill them, should defend those who can’t do it themselves and try to redeem myself by removing them but I don’t want to get used to it, to killing.<br/><br/>My face grows stonier as I run, muscles pumping, putting more speed into my sprint.<br/><br/>I’ll give some of them a second chance, try to disable them enough to put them in prison but I can’t let them go. I know I can’t. If I ever want anyone to ever trust me, I have to do something to them and killing would be the easiest way to communicate that. But I can’t, I know I can’t, especially not to Bonesaw. No matter what she’s done, she's still a kid and I really can’t even think about going through with it.<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>Jack Slash. I’ll kill Jack Slash. That's the morally sound thing to do. He chose to become a serial killer, he chose everything, he’s the one who deser-<br/><br/><em>gah!</em><br/><br/>A horn blares, brassy, loud and directly in front of me. I flinch, almost missing a step as my eyes clear and finally notice a fire truck in the opposite lane. There are no sirens, its wide bank of lights dark as it barrels through the night. A pale face is briefly illuminated by a passing streetlight, as he stares down in confusion at me sprinting past, meeting his eyes for a quick second before we are separated by our opposing velocities.<br/><br/>The truck tears past, the vortices of it’s passage whipping around me as I continue forward.<br/><br/><em>no lights?</em>.<br/><br/><em>could have flattened me</em><br/><br/>I turn my head around to follow the truck but lose it almost immediately, the inky blackness of the night swallowing the hulking shadow as if it had never existed. When I turn back around, I notice the plume of smoke has gotten much closer, a thick cloud looming thousands of feet above and the flickering of fire visible through a thin band of trees, the distinctive shape of a suburban home consumed in flames. Even at this distance, I can see figures silhouetted between me and the fire, almost seeming to dance under the glare of the blaze.<br/><br/><em>ah hell i’m here<br/><br/>thought i’d get more time</em><br/><br/>Turning towards the fire, I quickly find myself transitioning from hard asphalt to much softer earth, kicking up drifts of pine needles as I consider a question that has suddenly made itself very relevant.<br/><br/><em>how the hell am I going to stop?<br/><br/>….<br/><br/>shit<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>eh, may as well take a tumble, it's not like I’ll break anything</em><br/><br/>Already bracing in preparation, I let my legs buckle underneath me as I begin to tumble, performing a few extremely lopsided flips directly into a copse of trees, meeting the ground with a thump and sliding to a stop over a bed of dead pine needles. As I lie on my back, I smile toothily up into the air.<br/><br/><em>haven't done that for a while!</em><br/><br/>An ember takes this brief moment of childish elation as an invitation to drift into my mouth and alight upon my tongue, abruptly reminding me of where I am, albeit rather rudely.<br/><br/>Smile fading, I rise to my feet, absentmindedly picking the ember off my tongue as I take in the scene. I was right, there are suburban houses burning to the ground, their wooden skeletons visible among the inferno, flocks of burning embers drifting across the smoke choked sky. The stars, the moon, everything is obscured under the blanket of red smoke overhead. This neighborhood looks fairly fancy, at least before the flames, decent distance between houses and what looks like the mangled remains of a gate stretched across two stone pillars.<br/><br/>Right now though, almost every house is ablaze, and the people who had clearly once lived in them are booking it into the surrounding woods, lugging backpacks and children as they flee. There are shadowy figures both moving and not sprawled across their yards and driveways, the sound of faint moans emitting from their prone forms. Some of them are very small.<br/><br/><em>dear god</em><br/><br/>As I break free of my paralysis, I begin to move closer, trying to tell if the danger had passed or if <em>she </em>was still here. My answer arrives promptly as the house furthest away from my current position abruptly explodes outward, burning shafts of wood spearing outward and embedding themselves in,the lawn like arrows. A figure emerges from the inferno, backlit with the burning home, punching forward, a bolt of fire leaping from her hand directly into one of the as of yet unlit houses. It ignites with a dull roar, helped along by the figure pouring streams of fire through the windows as she approaches. Her eyes glow a poisonous orange on her expressionless face, no trace of anything human underneath. She smiles, but it is rote, a practiced stretching of lips and exposure of teeth on an unchanging face, not even making it close to her eyes, dying a horrific death long beforehand.<br/><br/><em>Burnscar</em><br/><br/>An angry shout projects itself from the mouth of the street, Burnscar mechanically turns her head around to glance at the noise, seeing the familiar form of Bonfire step over the half melted gates, her hair a scorchingly yellow flame waving back and forth, searching for something to burn. She is closely followed by a tall, statuesque man, chiseled jaw jutting from a royal purple helmet, the color extending to his woven bodysuit. Fractals curl around his body, pulling the eyes across his body in revolving patterns. He raises his hands in a martial art’s stance, visibly preparing for an attack, while beside him, Bonfire does the same. A grim look is shared between the two, preparing for the trial to come.<br/><br/>Burnscar stops smiling, the brief affect dropped like an unsightly habit, as she begins to walk forward, fire cascading from her hands onto the ground below.<br/><br/><em>alright, I can do this<br/><br/>I can do this<br/><br/>go!</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Another S9 member, what are the odds! And our old friend Bonfire with a new friend of her own!</p>
<p>Hope y’all enjoy this!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. A Real Three-Alarm Fire - Auburn, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The edge of the forest is a dense bramble of immature saplings, stout bushes and grasping weeds, visibly smoldering in the hot dry air, just waiting to be set aflame by an errant ember. This appreciation of my surroundings runs through my mind in the split second before I tear a vaguely me-shaped hole in the foliage, obliterating the unfortunate greenery with a crunch.<br/><br/>As I explode outward into the sparse backyard of some unlucky homeowner, I see the man in purple make an arcane gesture with his hands, pushing at the air as Burnscar lunges towards him, the now distinctive roar of fire tearing through the night, only to be met with an earth-shaking thud, as if some vast object had been dropped onto the quivering earth. The few remaining windows present in the merrily burning house rattle as the ground quakes underneath my feet.<br/><br/><em>… wow</em><br/><br/>I am met with an awe-inspiring sight, an immense iridescent hemisphere, appearing as an enormous soap bubble stretching to encompass a sizable section of the street, all three of the parahumans faintly visible inside. The bright flames of Bonfire and Burnscar beautifully refract off of the interior of the bubble and scatter across the darkened street, long slices of brilliant light mixing with the orange of the fire erupting around me.<br/><br/><em>beautiful</em><br/><br/>I shake my head, this is not the time, I need to figure out what my plan of action is.<br/><br/><em>I need to get closer</em><br/><br/>As I cautiously approach the bubble, I start to actually make out the figures inside, their struggle becoming clear through the side of the bubble.. The rich purple, the burning hair, the burning woman, all there, but…<br/><br/><em>It seems too… slow</em><br/><br/>Burnscar is slinging long bolts of fire at the two heroes, yes, but she doesn't seem to be making any progress, her streams of fire creeping through the air, easily sidestepped by the purple hero and simply splashing off of Bonfire, failing to do anything more than leave ashy smudges along the bright red of her suit. Everything inside is moving so slowly with the exception of… Purple? Yeah. Purple, who seems to be running normally, flanking around Burnscar’s side, a long knife clearly protruding from one of his clenched fists.<br/><br/><em>interesting, some kind of time slowing bubble then?<br/><br/>cool</em><br/><br/>As Purple closes with Burnscar, he studies her for a quick second, readying his knife and clearly searching for somewhere to hit that isn’t covered in flames. As he approaches her, she starts to turn, flames slowly starting to condense around her. Purple grimaces and throws a heavy, telegraphed slash, visibly bracing for the pain as he puts his entire body behind the blow, kevlar wrapped fist plunging the knife right into her unprotected throat. I have the privilege of seeing Burnscar’s reaction, slowed down for maximum effect, her eyes slowly bugging out, her hands instinctively creeping towards her throat as she sways on her feet, a weakness Purple does not let go unpunished, viciously roundhouse kicking her in the side.<br/><br/><em>this feels… wrong to watch<br/><br/>I know she's an outright evil person, but…<br/><br/>still<br/><br/>stabbing her in the throat?</em><br/><br/>As I unconsciously massage my own throat, she slowly topples to the ground, as Purple lets out a muted cry of pain. The knife falls from his hand, the blade glowing red as the wrapped handle bursts into flame, instantly slowing like the rest of the bubble as it leaves his hand. As he staggers back from her falling form, he tears off his glove, the tough fabric burning even as he drops it, joining the knife slowly descending to the ground. Melted rubber hisses as it makes contact with the ground, Purple struggling with the laces before kicking it off as well. Now missing a boot but having gained vivid red burns contrasting with the dark skin of his hand, he resolutely resets his stance, refocusing on his opponent, who, having just hit the ground, promptly explodes, the flames she had wrapped around herself flaring blue before slowly expanding outward in a sphere of burning death.<br/><br/><em>nevermind</em><br/><br/>Purple blanches and turns to hobble away, even as the explosive force of the fire follows him, devouring the asphalt between the two and rebounding off of the concave walls behind Burnscar’s prone form. It slowly envelops Bonfire’s form, even as she glacially charges towards Burnscar, the fire rippling around her. Purple reaches the far side of the room and looks back at the expanding wall of flames, narrowing his eyes in thought as he places his hand on the smooth interior of the bubble.<br/><br/><em>there's not enough room</em><br/><br/>He clearly reaches the same conclusion, evidenced by his clenched teeth, briefly visible in the flickering light. He casts his gaze around the bubble looking for something to do, something to prevent the horrific death staring him in the face.<br/><br/><em>wait<br/><br/>I can save him<br/><br/>make him invulnerable and help<br/><br/>yes, yes!</em><br/><br/>I run towards him, swerving around the burning corpse of the suburban house and over the soot stained driveway. As I approach his position towards the end of the street, he spots me, and to my suprise, doesn't immediately start screaming. Instead he looks concerned, gesturing for me to get away, to run.<br/><br/><em>ah a hero to the end, good to see</em><br/><br/>However, as I get closer, he furrows his brow, noticing more of my features and I see the moment he places my face, despite the hair, despite the clothes, despite everything I’ve done to distinguish myself, he still recognizes <em>her</em>. It’s hard to place emotion through a mask, especially one that covers everything above the nose, but I couldn't miss the fear in his suddenly slack lips, the sudden change of his body language.<br/><br/><em>god, I hope i'm not scarier than the explosion</em><br/><br/>We’re separated by a thin shell of the bubble, whatever it might be. I don’t know if I can break it and I don’t know if I want to try. It could explode and kill everyone except me, It could explode and kill just me, but I really don’t want to find out which. Siberian doesn't have the best track record with weird time shit. So, I can’t grab him, I've got to convince him to drop it himself and that I won’t eat him.<br/><br/><em>easy peasy</em><br/><br/>I extend my hand, and try to look as friendly as possible, smiling as widely as I dare without revealing any of my wickedly pointed and probably still bloody teeth. Instead I just extend my wickedly pointed nails which are perched upon my admittedly clean hand.<br/><br/><em>hmm, that's not great</em><br/><br/>Purple looks at me, then over his shoulder at the explosion creeping up to mere feet behind him, heat visibly rolling around him. Almost immediately he begins to sweat, rivulets running down his jaw as his beard starts to curl up, the hairs almost smouldering in the dry heat. His eyes flash to me again, lingering on my outstretched hand before nodding, almost imperceptibly.<br/><br/><em>good, fantastic, let's do this.</em><br/><br/>I begin to focus on that idea, that switch located somewhere in my brain that reads, <em>make it safe </em>and ready myself for the inevitable.<br/><br/>It happens, as I suspected, in a flash. Purple makes a pulling gesture with both hands, as if tearing apart an invisible phonebook and with a sound not unlike breaking glass, the dome shatters, each piece separating from its neighbors and vanishing into the aether. I’m sure it would be a beautiful sight to be contemplated at length, but I have something more important to focus on. As the dome disappears, Purple is pushed forward, shoulder flying into my outstretched arm, his own outstretched arm falling to his side as he instinctively tries to regain his balance. The concept of inviolability is pushed into him as soon as I touch him, but there is a millisecond of give to his skin, and as I catch him, a pained howl erupts from his lips, the sound buried underneath the roaring of fire surrounding us both.<br/><br/><em>ah shit</em><br/><br/>I flinch, both from his scream and the overpowering rush of flame around us, the vast outpouring of power expanding into the still burning neighborhood, setting whatever had escaped the first round on fire. It was over quickly, the actual explosion so much quicker than what I had been anticipating for the last minute inside the dome. After the rush of flame, it was nothing but smoke, I look down at Purple, searching for whatever I had done to elicit such a pained scream.<br/><br/><em>oh fuck that doesn't look good</em><br/><br/>I had grabbed at his shoulder in my haste to catch him and had obviously pushed it out of its socket, the knob of bone pushing out grotesquely from his skin. The force of the explosion had contested my immovable form and his poor shoulder had come out the loser.<br/><br/>Looking down at his kneeling form, he seems otherwise fine, currently occupied with gazing up at my face, apprehension and slowly growing anger visible across what little of his face I can see.<br/><br/>“Thanks.” he forces out through his clenched teeth, “For the help, against your <em>friend</em>”<br/><br/>I grimace, unsure of how to gesture in defense of myself, that I'm not the Siberian, that I’m going to help. How do I act that out? Cradling his arm, he forces himself to his feet, shrugging off my hand as he rises and looks down at me, beginning to say something else.<br/><br/>Behind Purple’s form, a flare of fire lights up the night followed by a gut-wrenching scream, and as he whirls around to look, we both see Bonfire beating the absolute shit out of Burnscar, just really putting her all into punching Burnscar in the face. Burnscar’s left eye is ruined, the melted wreckage of another knife jutting from the remains, clearly not having gone in more than a few inches. Unfortunately, after Bonfire gets a particularly good hit in, Burnscar shrieks in anger and disintegrates into fire.<br/><br/><em>teleport<br/><br/>where'd she go?</em><br/><br/>Three doors down, a house explodes outward, fire billowing hundreds of feet into the sky as burning fragments of wood, vinyl siding and insulation rain down into the already thoroughly burning neighborhood. Burnscar emerges from the wreckage, burning cyclopean eye lancing through the night to alight upon me.<br/><br/><em>ah</em><br/><br/>She smiles.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh damn, it's a new day!</p>
<p>Sorry for the break, just didn’t really feel like writing, but that may change.</p>
<p>Hope y’all enjoy this!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Mistakes Are Made To Learn From - Auburn, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bonfire stumbles onto the ground, momentarily thrown off balance by Burnscar’s sudden disappearance as the explosion echoes through the neighborhood once more. Bonfire staggers back to her feet while reacquiring Burnscar’s position, and, noticing that her attention is no longer focused on her, follows the look to me. She blinks. Then swears. Loudly.<br/><br/><em>quite</em><br/><br/>My attention is quickly diverted as Burnscar begins her approach, her burning gaze piercing me, taking in my appearance while I quickly take the opportunity to return the favor.<br/><br/>She's short and wiry, clad in a threadbare red shirt and jeans hanging loose on her frame. A smile hangs unconvincingly from her mouth, a performative act of joy, of meeting a friend unexpectedly, but there is absolutely nothing behind it. Blood seeps from her ruined eye to obscure the line of evenly spaced cigarette burns lying underneath. The other cheek is visible, the pocket-marked scars stretching in the flickering light. Within the gruesome gash laying her throat open, something metallic sullenly glints in the firelight. Parts of the throat I had intellectually known were present are now sliced open for all to see, layers of muscle and fat glistening over the exposed bone of her larynx.<br/><br/><em>dear god</em><br/><br/>As my face instinctively contorts in disgust, her remaining eye contracts, the overwhelming fiery glow burning hotter as she sets her jaw, corpse-like smile dropped in favor of bared teeth, paradoxical emotionless aggression present in every line of her body, almost burying the hint of fear present deep within. A horrific breathy exhalation rises from her throat as she painfully forces words from her lips.<br/><br/><b>“Not. Her.”</b><br/><br/><em>shit<br/><br/>what do I do</em><br/><br/>Burnscar takes a step closer, the houses surrounding us burning brighter, hotter, taller, the flames towering into the sky. The situation is escalating, I need to make a move. But what? I- I don’t want to kill her, but she’s going to try to kill others, she’s killed others tonight. I know the right thing to do but. I can’t, I just don’t want to have that kind of thing on my shoulders, in my dreams. Something else then. Anything else.<br/><br/><em>bluff<br/><br/>scare her off<br/><br/>before she hurts them</em><br/><br/>I have to make her focus on me, on the immediate threat, not anyone who can actually get hurt. Bonfire went toe to toe with her and I know I saw her get hit full force by that explosion and walk out unscatherd, so she’s probably fine, but Purple, he’s already been burned and I don’t know if I can hurt her but I can’t let her kill someone because I was too chickenshit to stop her.<br/><br/><em>right<br/><br/>only if it's necessary<br/><br/>only if it's <b>absolutely </b>necessary</em><br/><br/>Plastering a smile upon my face with forced joviality as, feeling the sharp impressions of myriad shark-like teeth digging into my lips, I stride forward. trying to project confidence. Spreading my hands in a what-can-you-do gesture, I pass by Bonfire who, while flinching away from my outstretched arms, does give me a somewhat hopeful look, if buried under instinctive terror.<br/><br/><em>progress</em><br/><br/>I’m guessing that the Siberian didn’t smile too much, as Burnscar looks more and more cornered as I approach, her posture stiffening and curling inward defensively. The decision between fight or flight is being made even as I walk closer. The fires surrounding us burn brighter and brighter, nearing their apex. For a shining moment, everything stands still. A choice is made.<br/><br/>Her choice is, of course, an absolutely enormous amount of fire. The pyres, that scant hours ago were houses, coil around us, the entire neighborhood imploding with a titanic rush of air and sound not dissimilar to an oncoming locomotive. The road has become the epicenter of a colossal cyclone comprised of fire and pieces of the surrounding houses.The trees surrounding the cul-de-sac sway wildly, the sudden difference in airflow causing a cataclysmic gust of wind moving first outward then violently inward. The asphalt beneath my feet melts, instantly becoming an ankle deep morass of boiling tar, the surface whipping wildly through the air. Through the overwhelming rush of light and sound, I feel a titanic thud, the already recognizable sound of Purple’s bubble resonating through the ground,the iridescent barrier deflecting swirling vortices of fire around it’s shining surface.<br/><br/><em>good, he’s fine</em><br/><br/>Burnscar keeps her eye locked on me, even as the apocalyptic waves of fire sweep around us. She’s close, no more than twenty feet away. I know I could get to her, I've done it before. Just tackle her, she’d be instantly sheared in two and I could cut another notch into my belt, just another Slaughterhouse member dead by my hand. I can do it. I don’t. I just watch her, waiting for a reason, some excuse to act, to defend someone else. Anything.<br/><br/>She doesn't give me the luxury of a simple choice. Her form unravels, peeling off into the flames, her singular burning iris the last piece, before it too disintegrates into the boiling air.<br/><br/><em>...shit</em><br/><br/>A meaty impact followed by a heart-wrenching scream pierces through the roaring of the surrounding firestorm, instantly yanking my attention back to my surroundings, to see Bonfire topple onto the ground, clutching a jagged yard-long shard of burning wood embedded clear through her thigh.<br/><br/><em>help her!</em><br/><br/>Moving to her side quickly, I place my hand on her shoulder as gently as I can, pushing invulnerability into her. She gasps in relief and looks at me, suppressed pain warring with confusion in her eyes. Seconds later, the burning skeleton of a queen-sized bed dashes itself against our crouched inviolable forms, wood splintering into hundreds of tiny shards that ricochet through the air. I can see the houses coming apart at the seams around us as I crouch by Bonfire’s side, eyes fixated on the awe-inspiring sight surrounding me. I faintly hear Bonfire screaming in the background, all but drowned out from the howling of the wind..<br/><br/><em>oh god this was a bad idea<br/><br/>why did I try to bluff a mass murderer<br/><br/>jesus</em><br/><br/>Eventually, the outburst stops, the vast tornado collapsing around us and returning the night to our surroundings. The neighborhood is completely gone, nothing save scorched foundations remains, the houses themselves devoured by ravenous flames and spread over at least a mile of forest. The surrounding trees are alight, if much less so with Burnscar’s exit, but the neighborhood itself is dark, every scrap of fire used, every piece of fuel exhausted in one last attack.<br/><br/>I gently collapse to lay flat on my back, uncaring of the still gooey asphalt, only barely remember to keep contact with Bonfire, gently pressing one foot against her side. Above me, the surrounding woodfires cast the sky a poisonous orange. Bonfire looks down at my prone form, then at my foot pressed into her ribs. I can see her briefly considering moving away, before slumping over, trying to catch her breath. As I lay there, Bonfire’s hoarse panting unkindly reminds me of my own unmoving chest, of the fact I haven't taken a breath in the last few hours.<br/><br/><em>god this has been a long day</em><br/><br/>The quiet sound of shattering glass pulls me from my self pitying reverie, quickly reminding me of the other person in this situation. Both me and Bonfire look backward at the collapsing bubble, Purple’s vibrant costume clearly visible even in the fading light. He stands in a comparatively unscathed circle twenty feet wide, the division between road and melted ruin clear. He looks alright, not scorched and burned by the cataclysm I had just experienced. His shoulder looks better, clearly having been popped back in the socket but judging from the momentary wince as he moves it, it still stings.<br/><br/><em>whoops</em><br/><br/>Behind his mask, Purple professionally scans the area, eyes taking in the burning perimeter and, upon seeing no other immediate threat, returns his gaze to me. As his attention darts from me to Bonfire, he takes in her wound and notes my leg pressed up against her ribs. His jaw tightens as he strides towards us, tension apparent in every hurried step he takes.<br/><br/><em>alright, a human interaction that is not with a serial killer<br/><br/>don’t fuck it up</em><br/><br/>“So.” He says in a sharp, unfamiliar accent, abruptly stopping at the edge of his island of safety. “You are not the Siberian?”<br/><br/><em>yes! good!</em><br/><br/>I nod rapidly.<br/><br/>“You have her features, you have her same power.” He states authoritatively, almost accusing in his tone. ”Have you taken her body then? Mastered her? Does she still live? When did you do this? “<br/><br/>The last question is almost a yell, his volume spiking before forcibly calming himself by taking a deep, fortifying breath. In contrast, his final question is cold, spoken in a voice quivering with repressed anger.<br/><br/>“Was this before or after you murdered Atlas?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>He and Atlas were very good friends, so he’s got a bit of a grudge. But then, so do a lot of people. Ain’t that always the way.</p>
<p>Hope y’all enjoyed it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. There’s A Time And Place For Everything - Auburn, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Atlas? who’s t-</em><br/><br/>In a rush of memories, I remember. A dreamlike hunt, chasing a tall, muscular man down through a crowd of ghosts, culminating in carving out and devouring his heart in front of his eyes. Then jerking awake, all too-clearly remembering his tortured face only barely visible under a mask of blood, the gaping hole in his chest surrounded by tattered strips of kevlar emblazoned with the sigil of a globe, and the final crunch of Manton hitting his body with a van.<br/><br/><em>oh, Atlas, </em>I think faintly, the sudden impact of repressed memories slamming into me like a freight train, everything that happened during the last few hours collapsing upon my shoulders all at once. Killing Crawler and Manton and Mannequin and Atlas and the burning houses and the look of horror on Bonfire’s face and the palpable terror from those people in the back room and everything else in this horrible night. My head smacks down onto the hardening asphalt, the material instantly caving under the half-hearted impact as I sprawl out onto the ground, eyes fixated on the only visible object in the night sky, a blood red moon hanging behind a choking cloud of smoke.<br/><br/><em>shit<br/><br/>guess we’re doing this now</em><br/><br/>I try to take a deep breath, only to be reminded that I haven't been breathing for the last few hours. I fruitlessly perform the correct muscle movements, my chest visibly moving, but lacking any actual airflow. My struggles are completely cosmetic, as if there's nothing going on underneath the surface, just a blank void wrapped in inviolable skin. This does not improve my emotional state in the least.<br/><br/>I faintly feel my hands clenching around the melted asphalt around me, effortlessly squeezing it apart like soft clay before forcing myself to stop, my hands are inches away from Bonfire and I cannot risk hurting her now, after everything I’ve done.<br/><br/>Purple makes a couple more accusative noises and I’m pretty sure I hear Bonfire chime in at times, but I don’t pay them any attention, eyes fixated on the moon overhead. It doesn't stop their faces from floating into my mind’s eye, Manton’s denial filled eyes popping as I punch a hole through his head, Crawler’s all too human look of confusion decorating his monstrous face after I tore his body apart, Mannequin’s resigned nod right before I crush his chest flat. These images stick in my mind, the visceral feeling of killing thrumming through my hands, the sounds of snapping bone and tearing muscle echoing through my mind. My brief experience as the Siberian proper runs through my mind, its callous disregard for life reflecting my own conscious actions.<br/><br/><em>they deserved everything they got</em><br/><br/>Did they? I jumped into this place having read about it years ago and blindly believed everything, making life or death decisions based completely off what I think I know. What if they were better people? What if they were genuinely trying?<br/><br/>...<br/><br/><em>no<br/><br/>Crawler would have eaten Bonfire, Mannequin tried to kill me and Manton... Manton made me do terrible things. He deserved it the most.</em><br/><br/>…<br/><br/>I’m going to have to do it again, I know it. Something’s going to force my hand, whether Shatterbird starts to scream, Burnscar burns down an apartment building, or Bonesaw does something fucky, I’ll need to do what needs to be done.<br/><br/><em>how heroic.</em><br/><br/>I’ve helped people! I know I have! Bonfire would’ve died to Crawler! Those people in the thrift shop would’ve died! Purple would have died to Burnscar! I have done good things and if I don't continue, knowing I could have done more, I'll only have more regrets!<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>Anyway. Jack still needs to die. No matter what. It’s all his fault and he needs to pay for it. I don’t care if he’s part of Golden Morning, he can be replaced with someone who won’t take so much satisfaction in the act. I kill him, everything else will fall into place.<br/><br/><em>right</em><br/>…<br/><br/><em>sure</em><br/><br/>I blink, still staring up at the now somewhat clearer moon, the smoke having been gradually blown away while I laid there. I can actually start to make out some of the brighter stars in the sky above. There’s something different, something missing. I look down and notice that Bonfire is no longer pressed against my foot, in fact that she is not there at all. Rising to my feet from a supine position, I cast my gaze around the desolate remains of the neighborhood, searching for the bright red and purple of the hero’s costumes.<br/><br/>I don’t need to look far, as they are no more than twenty feet behind me, sitting within the circle of intact ground. Purple is expertly bandaging Bonfire’s thigh in a thick layer of gauze already soaked through with blood, a mint green canister resting beside his kneeling form. The jagged shard of wood lays off to the side, removed quickly and given little thought as all his attention was focused on making sure Bonfire didn’t bleed out. Purple tightly secures the bandage around her injured thigh, what little skin she has exposed paling as she suppresses a groan of pain, quickly escaping as a sharp hiss as Purple sticks her with a small, disposable syringe. Finishing up with a murmured word to Bonfire, he packs the small first aid kit back into a pouch around his waist, as he glances over and, upon meeting eyes with me, tenses, his body language attempting to change to a more defensive posture, something made very tricky when one is kneeling, resulting in him almost falling onto Bonfire’s wounded form.<br/><br/>Twisting out of the awkward position he finds himself in, he rises to his full height, almost instantly towering over me, and proceeds to study me closely. He must see something in my face or stance because he nods and begins to haltingly speak, as if he cannot believe he is saying the words that come out of his mouth.<br/><br/>“I… apologize for my accusation. I was... very angry. Atlas was a good friend and the Siberian murdered him in cold blood.” He looks away from me, gritting his teeth, before continuing. “Bonfire has informed me of your… unorthodox method of protecting her against Crawler and I must extend my thanks for that, as well as your intervention to save my own life.”<br/><br/>Hesitatingly, I smile, consciously keeping my teeth from showing, and surprisingly he returns the smile, if in a strained, obviously practiced way. Still, better than outright terror. Below him, face twisted into a grimace, Bonfire slowly waves up at me from the ground.<br/><br/>“Yep, you were a real help out there, savin’ me from the jaws of death an everythin’, kinda wish you didn't wave me around like a flag but hey, i’m alive so whatever, I gues-”<br/><br/>“Perhaps I should introduce myself?” Purple cuts in pointedly “I am Verdandi, and I believe you have seen first-hand what I do.”<br/><br/><em>yeah, </em>I think, looking at the patch of clear land they are now resting upon<em>, I have.</em><br/><br/>“And,” Verdandi carefully enunciates.” I would very much like to know what happened. To you and to the Siberian”<br/><br/><em>ah<br/><br/>right</em><br/><br/>What the hell am I going to tell him? That i’m a Case 53? A new trigger? The whole and unvarnished truth? No. Not the truth, I don’t need shit to get existentially horrifying, I just need something plausible and not immediately proved wrong by basic logic.<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>Manton. It’s all his fault, i’ll drag his name through the mud and blame everything on him. He got cocky, lost control and I punched a hole through his face. It’s easy, concise and has a convenient scapegoat. It’s even true, if missing some background. But how do I-<br/><br/>I frown, diplomatically ignoring his flinch, pointing at my throat in the universal gesture for ”I can’t speak” and then proceeding to try and mime writing. Explaining some things can’t hurt, and it would be nice for them to know that I am not going to revert and eat them alive.<br/><br/>Verdandi looks blankly at my increasingly detailed miming of writing before slowly pulling out a small, yellow pad of paper from a belt pouch. I smile and give him a thumbs up, holding out my hand to him. Gingerly dropping it and a cheap blue ink pen pen into my hand, he takes a step back as I carefully push invulnerability into both items and begin to write.<br/><br/><br/><b>Hello</b><br/><br/><b>I was a projection<br/><br/>Now i'm not, I don’t know how<br/><br/>I killed the projector as soon as I could,<br/><br/>His body is in the mall parking lot<br/><br/>sorry about your friend</b><br/><br/><br/>Yeah, that looks about right. Handing him the paper, I watch him read it, his lips parting as he takes in the information, and upon reaching the end of the note, he looks back up at me, face unreadable behind his mask.<br/><br/>“Why now?” He asks, voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “Why not earlier?”<br/><br/>It’s a difficult question, and I can do nothing but shrug. There was no context to my predicament, no indication as to why it happened, only that it did. Predictably, he is visibly angered by this non-response, his remaining glove creaking as he tightens his fist, but quells it quickly, likely not wanting to provoke me.<br/><br/>“Fine. You don’t know what happened but you know that you are the… now independent projection that was once the Siberian. Is that right?”<br/><br/>I nod.<br/><br/>He sighs and kneads his cloth covered temples, suddenly looking very tired and done with the situation. Taking a deep breath, he straightens, looking me directly in the eyes and begins to speak in a firm tone.<br/><br/>“It would help immensely if you would come with us, Bonfire needs actual medical attention and your presence would lend credibility to your story. Will you accompany us to the Protectorate?“</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Verdandi’s not having a good day.</p>
<p>Hope y'all enjoy this, it was interesting to write.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Let The Stars Be Your Guide - Auburn, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As always, many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I stand in front of Pur-<b>Verdandi</b> and consider the offer he has just tentatively extended. Should I accompany them to the Protectorate?<br/><br/><em>hmmm</em><br/><br/>To his credit, he does leave me an out, but still has a good point. Declaring that I’ve turned over a new leaf before promptly fucking off into the wilderness is probably not the optimal strategy. And yes, Bonfire is alarmingly pale, even with Verdandi’s hasty treatment and would probably appreciate a hospital and not being stuck in the burnt remains of a suburb. But going to the Protectorate?<br/><br/>What do I know for sure about the Protectorate?<br/><br/>So it’s a North American hero organization, started and perpetuated by Cauldron with all the moral fuckery that entails; Case 53’s, whatever the hell the nemesis program was supposed to be and perpetuating the status quo inherent in the system. However, whatever it’s myriad shortcomings, it's far better than the utter anarchy that would assuredly replace it. It’s helmed by… Alexandria? Eidolon? I know Alexandria is the chief director of the PRT but I’m pretty sure those are separate organizations. Is she the leader of both?<br/><br/><em>really need to google some of this, get my facts straight</em><br/><br/>As I think this, I begin to reach for my phone, a motion I've performed so many times it has been ingrained in my very being, hand dipping into my pocket and grasping impotently for a few seconds, a strand of familiar unease worming into my heart as I pat my jeans down before I realize what’s wrong. My face falls.<br/><br/><em>my phone doesn’t exist anymore<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>huh, that's not even in the top ten of my problems right now</em><br/><br/>...<br/><br/><em>huh</em><br/><br/>Anyway. Protectorate's a big hero organization, controlled by Cauldron and has put out a kill order for me, specifically the Siberian, but I doubt it makes much difference right now. They can’t hurt me unless, by some staggering coincidence, they brought Flechette out to this random town in Alabama in the middle of a S9 attack. Pretty unlikely, so I’m probably fine. The real problem is that literally everyone that can be categorized as sane hates the Siberian and probably does not want me rolling up on their base, swearing that “no really, I've changed, I swear.” Not to mention the loved ones of the people the Siberian has personally killed, both today and during her long and violent career.<br/><br/>But. They might know where the rest of the Nine are, where Jack is running to. I can end this, help save the world and distinguish myself from the Siberian even more. Perhaps I could also get some money from the bounties as well, inform them of Mannequin’s death, of his lonely resting place in the woods.<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>Well it’s an easy choice then. They can’t hurt me, they (probably) know where the rest of the Nine are, a win-win situation.<br/><br/><em>probably</em><br/><br/>Running one clawed hand through my shorn hair, absentmindedly enjoying the prickling of the left-over fuzz, I nod to Verandi, who is currently looking incredibly apprehensive, which is honestly to be expected. I don’t see anyone being comfortable in my presence for a very long time.<br/><br/>“Excellent,” he says, pointing towards the mouth of the suburb, where they had arrived from half an hour before. “There’s a van parked up the road, we’ll take it back to the PRT.”<br/><br/><em>alright, sounds good<br/><br/>wait<br/><br/>what about Bonfire?</em><br/><br/>Gesturing down at Bonfire’s prone figure, I look up at Verdandi quizzically, who quickly catches on to my intention, waving me down as he quickly bends over to pick her up.<br/><br/>“I can carry her, and you… you can look out for hostiles,” he says as he easily hefts her into his arms, Bonfire gasping in pain as he does so.<br/><br/><em>well.</em><br/><br/>While I certainly can’t begrudge his sense of caution, the sheer lack of trust stings nonetheless. Shaking the flash of resentment off, I step forward, cracks forming underneath my feet as I begin to walk through the slowly solidifying asphalt. The tar pooling between my toes feels like nothing more than pleasantly warm water even as it visibly radiates blistering heat.<br/><br/>…<br/><br/><em>at least I got cool powers, yeah?</em><br/><br/>Behind me, Verdandi clears his throat pointedly, prompting me to realize that, no, he cannot walk through hot tar without adhering his boots to the skin of his feet. I make my way back to them, debating what to do. I could carry Verdandi, but he probably would take some umbrage with that and I might drop him, or I could just make him invulnerable. No, then he might accidentally hurt Bonfire in the process.<br/><br/><em>hm</em><br/><br/>Guess I’ll have to hold onto them both then, just to make sure. Moving around to Verdandi’s back, I slowly extend both hands towards their respective shoulders, making sure to avoid the one I had already dislocated. Verdandi grits his teeth but allows it, while Bonfire seems to be descending into drug-fueled delirium. As one awkwardly connected mass, we make our cumbersome way out of the melted ruins of the cul-de-sac, successfully setting foot on the still intact highway without anyone suffering debilitating burns.<br/><br/>The fires have all but stopped, isolated blazes at the edges of the forests petering out without Burnscar’s attention. The air here is refreshing, cool and humid, a far cry from the hot, dry air inside the inferno behind. There is no smoke left, everything capable of smoking obliterated in the blast, the sky clear but for light pollution from the surrounding city. Letting go of both heroes, I look up into the sky above. Lone stars glitter far above, their patterns familiar to me from long since past summer nights spent watching the sky rotate above. It’s a comforting thing, having it stay the same despite everything else in my life changing so drastically. A large twinkling satellite drifting across the stellar dome overhead draws my eye, the object pulsing silently as it glides serenely through the sky. I smile, relieved by the inanity of the action against the utter insanity of tonight, not having to kill a ravening monster, not having to make a moral choice, just admiring the stars.<br/><br/>Our motley crew walks down the road, the orange glow of streetlights faintly illuminating a large van parked a hundred feet down the road, the matte black exterior absorbing the diseased light surrounding it. The white stenciling on the side resolves into the letters P.R.T. encapsulated within a winged shield. Barring the insignia, it seems to be nothing more than a transport van. Verdandi pulls a key from his belt pocket and unlocks the side door, strapping Bonfire into the front seat with what looks like a five-point safety harness.<br/><br/>“Keep pressure on the injury and you’ll be fine,” he says, forcing direct eye contact when it becomes clear she’s barely listening. “Do you understand? Yes or No?”<br/><br/>She giggles and gives him a sloppy thumbs up.<br/><br/>He sighs and pats her on the shoulder before walking around the front, getting into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. The back doors audibly click as I move to the back, opening the doors and climbing inside. It looks very bare, a textured metal floor and twin bars bolted to the roof. Uncomfortable looking benches line both sides of the van, enough space to house a few paramilitary soldiers or some incredibly yoked parahumans. I strap myself into the seat closest to the front and meet Vardandi’s masked eyes as he turns around, raising an eyebrow as he stares back at me, before he returns his attention to the windshield ahead.<br/><br/>“Ready?” he asks, voice firm.<br/><br/>I nod.<br/><br/>“Good.”<br/><br/>Revving the engine, he drives forward into the night, starting towards our destination and what promises to be another extremely stressful situation.<br/><br/><em>god, really hope I can still sleep</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Astrology must be weird as hell with the Simurgh, just one big evil omen hanging out in the sky. I mean, humanity is real superstitious, especially about the stars. Imagine being born under the sign of the Simurgh.</p>
<p>She must be real unsettling to the average person. She’s the only Endbringer you can actually see without visual aid and might just drop out of the sky to murder you if you look at her too long.</p>
<p>Anyway, hope y’all like it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. It’s Easy To Forgive An Enemy - Auburn, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This is quite possibly the most awkward situation I have ever been in, the air is thick with tension, and I am twiddling my thumbs in a dark van that feels more and more cramped by the second. Verdandi’s unburnt hand is tense on the wheel, the other cradled in his lap, tight, reddened skin following the handle of the knife that burned him. He stifles a wince as the van goes over a series of particularly sizable potholes, gritting his teeth as Bonfire giggles softly beside him, hair extinguished after whatever painkiller Verdandi gave her had kicked in. He’s clearly stealing glances back at me through the rearview mirror every few seconds, his head shifting minutely and shoulders growing more tense each time he spots me sitting right behind him..<br/><br/>“Road’s jus’ terribl’ out her’, eh?” Bonfire slurs out, casting her eyes over at Verdandi then over to me. Her nigh unintelligible attempt at small talk is met with silence, even more awkward than before, not that she seems to care, returning to her mumbling as Verdandi firmly fixes his gaze on the road once more.<br/><br/>Looking away from the front, I stare at the wall opposite me, desperate to focus on that is not someone blaming me for every misfortune he’s experienced for the last week or so. Unfortunately, the darkened interior of the re-purposed riot van is almost entirely bare, nothing but faint glints in the flickering dark betraying empty hooks and handrails over worn plastic seating, the twin to what is now sits underneath me. No windows, no interesting riot gear, just grey plastic and bare metal.<br/><br/><em>hmm<br/><br/>think i've seen everything</em><br/><br/>As I peer out the windshield, studiously keeping my eyes away from the rear-view mirror, the silence inside stretches like taffy, growing heavier as the minutes drag on, flashes of orange light casting the scene in ever shifting highlights. The van rumbles as it accelerates down the highway, long lines of trees, the uncomfortable silence is periodically broken by Bonfire giggling or slurring out increasingly unintelligible rambling before she trails off and begins to softly snore. Verdandi looks over at her slumped form, lips briefly quirking in amusement before catching my gaze in the mirror and hurriedly returning to his previous thin lipped grimace. I flick my eyes off his, once more staring out over the road.<br/><br/><em>well at least he’s nice, if not to me<br/><br/>good to know</em><br/><br/>The road looks much the same as any country road I've seen, a two lane highway flanked by dense forest, slowly winding through the dark night, on a road utterly deserted except for us. There's nothing but to wait for our arrival at our destination, wherever that may be. Alabama is one state of many I've never stepped foot in, nevermind actually knowing the layout of any city in particular. I’m not even sure if the Protectorate has an outpost here, or whether it’s big enough to warrant one. All I've seen is lots of forests, a mall and a thrift shop. That could be literally anywhere in the South.<br/><br/>Auburn… Not a city I've heard of before. And why here? I could have been… inserted at any time, any place. Why some random town in Alabama? Why not Brockton Bay? Why not right after Hero died? Also, what year is it? Manton started murderhoboing… 2000? 2001? I’m pretty sure it was around there sometime. Is it 2011, right around canon start? Middle of the decade? I’ve got to ask someone, I think I've still got the pen and paper somewhere, just need some light to write by.<br/><br/><em>later<br/><br/>god this is taking awhile</em>, I groan internally, taking my eyes off of the road and resting my head against the sparsely padded headrest.<br/><br/><em>we should have arrived by now, if th-<br/><br/>…<br/><br/>If the destination was in town.<br/><br/>…<br/><br/>shit<br/><br/>we’re going out of town, away from the rest of the nine</em><br/><br/>…<br/><br/>I-Is that a bad thing? I won’t have to personally kill them and without the Siberian providing the Nine a safety net, there might be a chance. The Nine just lost the Siberian, Mannequin and Crawler in one night, surely the heroes can pick up the slack, right?<br/><br/>…<br/><br/><em>mm<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>they’re fucked<br/><br/>and people are going to die</em><br/><br/>As I continue to think, my clawed fingers idly dig into my seat, tearing through the tough fabric and effortlessly plunge into the yellow padding beneath. I should go back, tear my way out of this van and go running off into the night once more, leaving them to flee without me. But, I agreed to accompany them both to the Protectorate, and breaking my word this early on in the”holy shit I swear i’m not the Siberian” thing would be… unwise for any future interaction I might want to have with the Protectorate as a whole.<br/><br/><em>also I have no goddamn idea where I am<br/><br/>I try to find the nine, i’ll be lost within the minute</em><br/><br/>Then the question becomes something more pressing, where are we actually going? A neighboring state’s PRT? A Triumvirate ambush? ...Cauldron? My eyes dart back to Verdandi, his tense shoulders silhouetted against the road ahead, a brief flash of orange momentarily illuminating a bead of sweat as it runs down his jaw.<br/><br/><em>nervous about the Siberian sitting right behind him or nervous because he’s leading her into a trap?<br/><br/>…<br/><br/>fuck<br/><br/>I've got to do something<br/><br/>can't just blindly trust them<br/><br/>don’t know where to go<br/><br/>but what do I do?<br/><br/>…<br/><br/>the radio<br/><br/>turn on the radio, police scanner, whatever, get some info and then… make a decision.<br/><br/>easy breezy, yeah?</em><br/><br/>The scanner itself is visible, a boxy appliance bolted onto the dashboard, blue LEDs blinking sluggishly in the gloom of the cabin. Only problem is, I need to somehow communicate this to Verdandi, who is quite possibly the most on-edge man I have ever seen and is probably in the process of driving me into an ambush.<br/><br/><em>alright<br/><br/>just gotta get his attention, preferably without touching him<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>I wonder if...</em><br/><br/>Extending my hand, I execute a pitch-perfect finger-snap, a short, sharp crack that pierces through the already tense atmosphere like a gunshot. Verdandi twitches violently, a heartfelt <em>fuck</em> escaping from his lips as he swerves into the next lane before regaining control of the steering wheel and yanking it back into line, before looking back through the rear-view mirror, jaw tensed even tighter than before.<br/><br/>“Yes?” he says, suppressing what I can only guess is incredible amounts of frustration, “What?”<br/><br/><em>that can’t be good for his teeth</em><br/><br/>My hand extends over his shoulder, awkwardly arcing over the seat to point one long nail at the police scanner, before making an incredibly unhelpful cranking gesture that I instantly regret as soon as it finishes. Verdandi stares at my hand for a long second before following the direction of my pointing finger to the merrily blinking scanner.<br/><br/>“Ah, you want to… listen to the radio? ” he asks incredulously, as I make another, more arcane gesture implying an <em>annnnnd? “</em>The… emergency scanner then.<em>” </em>he states, at once more certain but more apprehensive. He slowly swallows before continuing, “...Sure, why not?”<br/><br/>I flash him a thumb up, before retracting my arm from the cabin and moving closer to hear what the scanner has to say. Verdandi fiddled with the dials for a few taunt seconds, gaze flickering from me(sitting quietly and keeping my eyes on him), the road(unnervingly barren), and the scanner(hissing at him), before finally finding the correct channel.<br/><br/><b>“-TERBIRD PRESENT AT SOUTH DONAHUE DRIVE! SHE’S AT THE UNIVERSITY, ABOUT TO SING, PLEAS-”</b> A desperate man's voice screams forth from the van’s speakers, feedback building towards a painfully sharp peak before cutting out with a disturbing finality. Bonfire jerks awake, screaming through clenched teeth as her sudden movement jostles her injured leg, hand darting out to grab an armrest, clenched grip cracking the tough plastic.<br/><br/><em>shit<br/><br/>shit<br/><br/><b>shit</b><br/><br/>I’ve got to-</em><br/><br/>The windshield vibrates, the thick glass flexing in its frame as a deep roar rolls over the highway, overpowering the rumble of the road beneath the van. The noise builds, the windows shaking more and more as I lunge for the heroes, both hands outstretched to grab their shoulders and pushing inviolability in for the third(fourth?) time tonight. Unfortunately, my sudden appearance, subsequent physical contact and the fear that he was about to be killed by Shatterbird causes Verdandi to wrench the wheel to the right and slam on the brakes, no doubt attempting to pull over and stop as quickly as possible.<br/><br/>To the van’s detriment, this is not what happens. As Verdandi slams down on the brake pedal, his foot continues straight though the floor, obliterating the pedal and carving a ragged hole through the body of the van as it careens onward. Things are further complicated as the steering wheel is torn off the column, as Verdandi’s suddenly inhumanly strong grip proves to be too much for the worn plastic of the wheel as the van oversteers to the right, tries and fails to autocorrect and flips, tons of aged steel overturning in a cacophony of tearing metal and shattering glass as it careens into the woods at a little over fifty miles an hour, smashing through the underbrush before wrapping itself around a particularly stout oak.<br/><br/>However, before all that happens, we are unceremoniously ejected from the vehicle, our invulnerable bodies, carried forward by our forward momentum, tearing straight through the cab of the van as it suddenly changes course, tumbling headlong across the highway, skidding to a stop some hundred feet down the road, both of my hands still clamped tightly upon the heroes shoulders.<br/><br/><em>...<br/><br/>Jesus Christ, what the fuck</em><br/><br/>Rudely awakened from her drug induced slumber to a sudden and inexplicable car crash, Bonfire lets out a long exhalation, one that quickly rises into a raw-throated yell, expelling everything she has into one stress filled exclamation. On the other end of the scale, Verdandi has gone very stiff, desperately trying not to move, probably because he has landed right on top of me and is fairly squishing me underneath his superior body mass. All in all, a very uncomfortable position to be in.<br/><br/>This is not helped by the sudden deepening of the roar I had heard not more than ten seconds before, only now I can actually see out what’s causing it. In the watery glow of the streetlights, a massive metal behemoth touches down on the road, whining engines powering down as a gargantuan head tilts towards me, the subdued dings of cooling metal echoing across the asphalt between us.<br/><br/><em>ah shit</em><br/><br/>Dragon</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter really fought me and coupled with my newly online classes starting up again, I've had to work at this for a while.</p>
<p>Hope y’all enjoy this!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. It Just Isn’t An Adventure Without Dragons - Auburn, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a beautiful thing, this machine. The craftsmanship visible on every inch of its enormous, articulated body exceeds anything I have seen before, tons of silvered metal formed and crafted into the form of a titanic wyvern, thick back legs supporting the rest of its barrel-like body, its long, sinuous neck supporting a massive head, from which piercing blue LED eyes stare unblinkingly down upon me. It shifts, pneumatic muscles flexing under the thick leather of its faux hide as it adjusts to the now cratered ground underneath. The roar of its engines dies as its vast wings collapse inward, an indescribably complex shuffling of metal and machinery as,slowly, impossibly, the wings shifting into pillar-like legs, wicked talons scraping across the tarmac as it steps forward towards me.<br/><br/><em>...wow<br/><br/>just …wow</em><br/><br/>I think my mouth is hanging open, sheer awe running through my body from the sight of this… masterpiece before me. Taking another step closer to my prone body, the head lowers, piercing eyes still locked on my form, as its cavernous maw opens wide, a polite cough floating through the countless serrated knives masquerading as teeth.<br/><br/><em>what?<br/><br/>...oh</em><br/><br/>Abruptly remembering my current situation, I look down, my gaze traveling the two inch distance to meet the blank lenses of Verdandi’s mask, his body still awkwardly jumbled against mine from the fall. While I cannot see his eyes through the mask, I can guess from the sweat, jaw so tense it's actively quivering and the absolute stillness of the rest of his body that he is absolutely not having a good time right now.<br/><br/><em>ah</em><br/><br/>Sitting up, I release my grip from his shoulder, internally wincing at his sudden scramble across the asphalt to get away from me, before I turn to look down at Bonfire, who seems to have checked out again after her cathartic yell, her half mask forlornly dangling around her neck.<br/><br/><em>she doesn't look… great</em><br/><br/>In fact, Bonfire looks positively horrible, the massive bandage tightly wrapped around her leg has a spot of blood the size of a quarter right over her wound, her unmasked face pale and streaked with sweat. Her breathing is fast and shallow, something even my nigh-on-nonexistent medical knowledge can tell me is bad.<br/><br/><em>shit<br/><br/>what ca-<br/><br/>I cou- no<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>Dragon</em><br/><br/>Rising to my feet, I look up at the hulking machine looming over us all, pointing emphatically at Bonfire’s limp form, hoping that my meagre communication skills could get the point across. Dragon, and it can be no-one else, continues to keep her eyes on me, head unmoving but tracking my every movement. The suit's mouth opens wide once more, a woman's voice booms out from the depths of the machine, noise amplified into a resonant and commanding tone.<br/><br/>“<b>Hello</b>”, Dragon says, voice even and calm, “<b>I am Dragon, a member of the Protectorate. I understand you’ve had a difficult night and while I can empathize, we do need to work quickly to get to the crisis at hand.</b>”<br/><br/>I nod rapidly, relieved that Dragon both believed me and would help Bonfire out.<br/><br/><em>thank god<br/><br/>but what does she want?</em><br/><br/>“<b>You are in the body of the Siberian, capable of everything she could do, correct?</b>”Dragon continues, recessed cameras closely tracking my hesitating nod. ”<b>And the Siberian herself is dead, correct</b>?”<br/><br/>Again I nod, certain this time, because Manton is dead and there’s no way he’s coming back.<br/><br/>“<b>Good, very good</b>.” Dragon says, voice momentarily lightening before becoming much more serious. “<b>Now, as you know, the Slaughterhouse Nine are present in the city with all that that entails. I understand what you must be feeling, and that you want to help but I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to</b>.”<br/><br/>....<br/><br/><em>what<br/><br/>why?<br/><br/>I could help, I know I can!<br/><br/>kill Jack!<br/><br/>protect the innocent!<br/><br/>do something!<br/><br/>anything!<br/><br/>for fucks sake, shatterbird just blew up a college and I can’t do anything!<br/><br/>let me do something!<br/><br/><br/>...<br/><br/>please</em><br/><br/>Dragon stares down at me, her bulk motionless in the night, watching the silent war of emotions play across my face.<br/><br/>“<b>You inhabit the body of the worst serial killer on the continent</b>.” She says in an assertive tone, abruptly interrupting my thoughts. “<b>Jack Slash is renowned for being able to turn the most stalwart of heroes to his side. You became a parahuman yesterday. You have done a great thing in killing the Siberian, do not immediately hand the reins back to Jack Slash</b>”<br/><br/>...<br/><br/>The slate grey asphalt under my feet is worn down by decades of traffic, faint yellow markings all that remain of the road’s centerline. Dragon’s vast form casts long, jagged shadows from the streetlight behind her, flanked by tall, venerable oaks from both sides. The cicada’s, crickets, and katydids call into the night, uncaring of the thoughts whirling through my head.<br/><br/><em>Jack can’t control me, he needs to talk, to infect me with his rhetoric<br/><br/>I know his game, so I just kill him before he can talk<br/><br/>but what if I can’t<br/><br/>what if he gets in my head<br/><br/>what if he has a master power too, something I just forgot about<br/><br/>what if...</em><br/><br/>...<br/><br/>…<br/><br/><em>but, what doesn't she know about this?<br/><br/>Jack needs to die or he starts off the apocalypse<br/><br/>Bonesaw… is a kid, but has done truly horrific shit, needs to be dealt with… not by me<br/><br/>Shatterbird is just a murderer on a scale I can barely comprehend and needs to die<br/><br/>Cherish, unrepentant master and murderer<br/><br/>Burnscar, not by me<br/><br/>…<br/><br/>thought there wer-<br/><br/>oh<br/><br/>I killed the rest<br/><br/>….<br/><br/>does it have to happen now?<br/><br/>it’s before canon, I can guess that much<br/><br/>I can just wait a bit<br/><br/>…<br/><br/>yeah, she’s right</em><br/><br/>I sag in place, my hand moving up to run along at my shaved head, feeling the coarse bristles rub against the skin of my hand in mute enjoyment. Looking up at Dragon’s “eyes”, I nod firmly, I’m not going to kill the Nine tonight.<br/><br/>…<br/><br/><em>weight off my shoulders, I suppose</em><br/><br/>…<br/><br/><em>ah shit, how's Bonfire doing?</em><br/><br/>Turning my head, I look down at Bonfire’s prone form, Verdandi hovering over her body, putting pressure on her leg wound and looking real worried. Looking up at Dragon once more, I point down at Bonfire and mouth the words: <em>Help Her</em>. Dragon nods her mammoth head and moves over to us, as carefully as she can in a mech that size. She holds out one of her gigantic wing-turned-hand, upon which a long, sharp needle extends from the index finger, piercing into Bonfire’s wounded leg and injecting its payload. Bonfire tenses for a brief second, straining against Verdandi’s bracing arms before falling limp.<br/><br/>“<b>That should help for the moment, but she needs genuine medical help quickly. I would advise that you continue on your course to Montgomery, but…</b>” She looks meaningfully at the wreckage of the van smoldering in the woods. “...<b>that is no longer an option</b>.”<br/><br/><em>whoops</em><br/><br/>“<b>So</b>” she says, rearing onto her hind legs as her arms begin their breathtakingly complex change back to wings, “<b>you will have to ride with me</b>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Unknown parahuman in the body of the most lethal force on Earth Bet is not as comforting as you think it is. It’s better, don’t get me wrong but still very, very unpredictable. I really like Dragon and a character, but I feel a lot of people get stuck on the whole: “Dragon’s the only nice person on Bet, she can do no wrong and never oppose the MC”, but she’s been a great hero for years. She’s out to help people first, bar none.</p>
<p>I would really appreciate some feedback on the state of this fic and y’alls thoughts about how its been going.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. If Man Were Meant To Fly - Somewhere above Alabama - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the second, and hopefully final, time tonight, I have, willingly crammed myself into a vehicle filled to the brim with tension, albeit with a few key differences. Firstly, Verdandi, freed of his obligation to actually drive, can keep a close eye on me, while pretending that he’s not, but still obviously continuing to do so. Secondly, Bonfire’s comatose body is not propped into a threadbare, hard-packed foam seat, but rather ensconced within a somewhat newer, much more ergonomic foam seat. Thirdly, Dragon’s glowing flat-screen telepresence is safely embedded within the nearest bulkhead, providing me some incentive to figure out something real quick, namely what the hell I’m going to tell her that is at once believable and not instantly disprovable.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>alright, keep it simple, keep it vague</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>just make sure you look… non-threatening</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I may fail at this</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>eh</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>what's the wor-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>hmm, let’s not finish that, yeah?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>“Strap in now, we’re about to take off. Flight time should be right around twenty minutes,” Dragon says, voice much quieter and… Irish?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>huh, is that what a newfoundland accent sounds like?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Now that she’s not talking though a robot the size of a semi truck, I can actually make out more of her voice, which is masked by a good dose of digital noise, which works pretty well to hide her true voice but kinda makes her sound like a robot.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>heh</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>makes her sound like a robot</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>that's funn-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rudely interrupting my thoughts, the engines mounted just outside the compartment cough and begin to turn, their growing speed sending juddering vibrations traveling through the frame of the mech around me. As the twin engines reach a roaring crescendo, the entire machine rises slowly into the air, whatever excuse for a stomach I now possess dropping with it. It accelerates forward at the apex of our ascension, the sudden rush of the wind buried under the overwhelming roar of the engines as I’m pushed into the side of my seat, body pulling at the straps of my seat as it flies off into the night.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wait a minute, shouldn't my sea-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The second I form the thought, the harness snapping with a sudden crack of over-stressed fabric, tough fibers fraying into innumerable pieces as I jolt sideways, suddenly thrown off balance by the abrupt lack of resistance, my hip plowing through the plastic seat beside me. The sensation of falling hits me, the feeling of missing a step, of toppling backward, helplessly weightless as my body glides through seats and plate metal flooring alike. In that timeless moment of blind terror, something profound forces itself to the forefront of my panicking mind: I am about to fall out of this goddamn plane.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>ohnononononononono</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Desperately, I throw a hand out, flailing towards the wall of the plane, long nails scoring long furrows into the metal and sparking lights as I slam immutability into the wall, feeling it sink deep into the bones of the mech, right before I slam into the ass end of the compartment with a deafening bang.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>jesus titty-fucking christ</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As I sit there, back wedged up against the loading door, I take a moment, try to breathe in, fail once more and grit my teeth instead. My fingers dig into the furrows left by my desperate flailings and latch on, desperate not to lose their grip again. The panicked demands of Verdandi and Dragon’s persistent questions buzz at the edge of my perception.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>god I hate falling, always have</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fuck planes</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fuck heights</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>need a break</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>feel everything just building up inside, nowhere to go</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>never thought I’d say this but holy shit do I need to have a panic attack</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fuck that</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’m not doing this again, not in front of these people</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>after this i’ll go out in the woods and break shit, break down, try to cry, whatever works</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>later</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>now </em>
  <em>
    <strong>get up</strong>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Blinking rapidly, I pull myself out of my fugue, ignoring the phantom tracers of terror as I dig my tensed digits out from the fuselage, running my fingers over the long furrows as I get up, absentmindedly looking for any kind of puncture in the hull itself. Not that I’d know what it’d look like beyond a jet of gas conspicuously spraying from the wall but still. It seems… fine somehow, no wind as air tries to escape the plane, no change in outside noise. </p><p> </p><p>Reluctantly, I look up, checking on Verdandi and Bonfire, the former of which is looking back at me, a forced blankness on what little visible face he has. I don’t think Bonfire even stirred, still locked into her harness and fast asleep. My gaze then travels over to Dragon’s computer generated face, visible on the flat screen hanging on the far-side of the compartment, looking at me. She’s talking, has been for a while, I think. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I should probably be listening, yeah?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“-right?” Dragon asks, sounding concerned</p><p> </p><p>I give her a thumbs up and an admittedly weak smile.</p><p> </p><p> “That's good to hear S- ah, do you, have a name you would like me to call you or is… Siberian alright? “ she continues, off balance as soon as she mentions the old name.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a good question: Do I want to be called the Siberian? The name of the cannibalistic serial killer? The thing I've been trying to separate myself from for the last day? No, I don’t think I want to be called the Siberian ever again.</p><p> </p><p>I shake my head.</p><p> </p><p>In the half-light of the cabin, I see Dragon faintly smile. “I see. We can discuss that later, though, there are more important things to talk about.” Her smile fades, returning to a serious demeanor. “You nearly tore this craft apart in seconds. I will need some assurance that it will not happen again. I know you cannot talk, so I will ask you simple yes or no questions. Do you understand?”</p><p> </p><p><em>sure, yes, </em>I nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Good. First and most important, will you lose control again?”</p><p> </p><p><em>no, </em>I shake my head resolutely.</p><p> </p><p>“Will you be similarly affected If I were to accelerate or turn suddenly?”</p><p> </p><p><em>huh… maybe? </em>I shrug.</p><p> </p><p>She grimaces. “Mm, alright, we are fifteen minutes from Montgomery, tell me if you can make it there. Be truthful.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>am I sure?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>yes, it's invulnerable now, before was a mistake. I can do this.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I nod to Dragon.</p><p> </p><p>She keeps her false eyes upon me for a long second before nodding as well. “Very well. I will trust you on this.” </p><p> </p><p>Holding both hands to the hull, I make absolutely sure that I won’t forget again, flashes of that second of utter terror revisiting me as I sit there in the sole remaining seat on that side of the compartment. I hold on tight as the suit begins to accelerate once more, much more gradually than before. </p><p> </p><p>The next twenty minutes are stressful to say the very least, my hands staying firm on the walls of the suit throughout all of it nonetheless. The minutes leading up to the eventual landing were the worst, just wishing that it would take just a little less time and worrying that something, somewhere had gone wrong. When we finally touched down with a heavy jolt, I could have wept, if, you know, I had tear ducts.</p><p> </p><p>The hatch opens with a subtle hiss before quickly transitions into a grating screech, the hydraulics struggling to force the door past the visible dents before Dragon stops it from rising further, leaving us a roughly four foot tall opening, something the paramedics waiting outside have already taken advantage of. Two of them duck under the hatch carrying a stretcher somewhat awkwardly between the two, quickly casting their eyes around the small interior before noticing Bonfire. They gently pull her from her seat, undoing the restraints as they go, before strapping her securely into the stretcher. They pull her from the cabin as quickly as they arrived, one pulling Verdandi along with him, barraging him with questions about her condition, what had happened and how long ago it had occurred.</p><p> </p><p>To my amusement, he gets somewhat flustered by the sudden assault, instinctively falling back a step, before composing himself and following the paramedic out the hatch, throwing one last look over at me.</p><p> </p><p>Giving him a tired smile, I wave, a slow sardonic thing. Then to my surprise, he almost smiles, the smallest quirk of his lips visible before he’s gone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And now it’s my turn</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Old and new anxieties mix as I walk over to the dented hatch, briefly pausing to fortify myself before I duck under the exit.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’ve noticed as I get more emotional my swearing gets more and more blasphemous. Wonder if I should read into that.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. The Mistake Was Mine, For Trusting You - Montgomery, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi! </p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As I step forth from the suit, the low light of Dragon’s suit gives way to the overwhelming darkness of a starless night. Glancing around, my eyes instantly adjust to the change as I notice the space surrounding me. There’s nothing but a vast concrete plain stretching far into the distance, dotted with evenly spaced lights slowly undulating down the strip, past which tiny glittering lights of a distant city strain to pierce the heavy clouds surrounding it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>a runway?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wh-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>oh</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’ve been tricked</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>again</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fucks sake</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A door slams shut behind me, and even as I turn my head to look I know what I'll see. As suspected, the ambulance is already tearing off down the airstrip, siren blaring and lights flaring as it careens towards the city far in the distance. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I mean, fair</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>hope they make it out fine</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dragon’s hatch hisses shut as the massive machine sinuously turns around to look down at me once more. Her wings remain wings, burning air still cycling through the twin engines, shimmering in the cool night air. Those LED eyes gaze down at me from high above, my neck craned up to meet them. There's nothing there to glean from, no emotions visible through her posture, just the unblinking eyes of a machine staring me down on the tarmac of some unknown airfield. Does she regret misleading me? Did she actually mislead me, or did I just assume we were going directly to the PRT? </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>did she ever say where she was taking me?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>….</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>god i'm a trusting dumbass</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>whatever, it makes sense</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>don’t want the Siberian right in the middle of your base, liable to start killing at the drop of a hat</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I get it</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>don’t like it but I get it</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>But why here?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s no answer to my unasked question in Dragon’s mechanical features, only the tilt of her enormous head up towards the sky.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>... </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>well... shit</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Turning around slowly, I follow her gaze upwards, tracing the looming clouds hanging over us, the distant city casting them a dull orange, serving an unwelcome reminder of Mannequin and Burnscar both, the choking plumes of smoke resulting from their respective infernos shooting forward in my mind’s eye. However, before I can truly descend into the memories of fire and death, I spot them. Silhouetted against the sky are three figures, hanging motionless in the air. Even from this distance, I know who they are. The Triumvirate.</p><p> </p><p>Alexandria </p><p> </p><p>Legend</p><p> </p><p>Eidolon </p><p> </p><p>The greatest heroes of Earth Bet. Truly larger than life, floating effortlessly in the sky, nothing moving but their capes . Their heavy attention lies upon me, and I can only begin to guess what it means. Are they acting as heroes of the Protectorate or as agents of Cauldron? Is this a test? To see if I’ll try to kill them, if I’ll drop the charade for the mere chance at a kill. Are they going to see me as the Siberian, murderer galore, or as the escaped projection they know me to be? It’s impossible to say, their faces exposing nothing, already made remote by masks and cowls are further obscured by distance and the dark night surrounding them. </p><p> </p><p>As one, they break their stillness and fall towards me, descending far too slowly for it to be mere gravity affecting their movement. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>power move</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Behind me, Dragon’s bulk shifts, metal scraping across the tarmac as her engines begin to spool up and as I spin around to look, she is already rising into the sky, hot wind buffeting my clothes. Her emotionless eyes stare down at me as she rises and almost seems to be looking for something. Whatever it is, it doesn't stop her from flying into the night, her blinking flight lights lost in the low clouds within seconds.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That's not good</em>
</p><p> </p><p>They do not land, instead choosing to float inches above the runway, close enough to be heard, yet still far enough away to be out of easy lunging distance. I can actually see them now, read what little emotion they let through their respective body languages and covered faces. Legend, over on the right, is the easiest to read, defined musculature tensed under the skintight suit he wears. His hands are open by his side, the gesture usually signifying peace inverted by the muted tendrils of light bleeding forth from his palms, as he stares at me, a mixture of skepticism and poorly hidden hatred writ large upon his face.</p><p> </p><p>Alexandria stands in the center, a statuesque woman, tall and muscular with a brutal scar on her face, twisting long and jagged right through her eye. The visor masks most of this, but there is no mistaking the absence of an eye looking back at me. She is deathly still, face remaining utterly composed but I can see her remaining eye through her visor flicking across my form, taking my measure at a glance and then continuing for more. However, despite the ongoing appraisal she still radiates loathing. She hates me, and for good reason. These hands tore her eye from her face and murdered her dearest friend. I can’t begrudge her for that.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>but shouldn't she know?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>about Manton?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Then finally, there is Eidolon. There is nothing to be gained from him, his face hidden behind both a featureless mask and crackling green sparks surrounding his form. He is covered with a thick green cloak, obscuring his body beneath it’s folds. All three of these great heroes are looking down at me with varying degrees of hatred. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>this…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>this feels like an execution</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Alexandria drifts forward slowly, her singular eye locked upon my form, seeming to penetrate through my body to gaze upon my very soul. My jaw tenses, faux muscles tighten as her inspection drags on for what seems like minutes but what I know has only been seconds. Finally, her eye flicks up to mine, a look that could possibly be mistaken as apologetic, something instantly obscured underneath the unforgiving glare of her steel grey eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>No one moves for a long moment, the tension hanging thick and unsure in the still air before being cleanly broken once more by Alexandria, her unyielding voice echoing out over the empty tarmac, sealing my fate in two simple words.</p><p> </p><p>“She’s lying.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>no</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her verdict thus delivered, Alexandria begins to ascend back into the starless sky, any semblance of an apology entirely absent on her stony face, singular eye still locked upon mine. Legend and Eidolon slowly follow her up, their gazes remaining squarely upon me, following my every move, any trace of doubt that may have existed has been instantly obliterated in the face of Alexandria’s words. They truly believe I’m the Siberian, and they’re going to tell everyone a lie. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>NO</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I take a step forward, fingers curling tight into abortive fists, eyes wide and mouth open as my face twists into a mask of horrified betrayal. The step cannot decide whether it is the beginning of a maddened charge or the pivot to sprint away. Eidolon, already braced and watching for any movement, takes it as the first , immediately thrusting both arms out from his all-concealing cape, green sparks already beginning to arc between his outstretched fingers. The sparks burn hotter and hotter, the actinic radiance casting long, grasping shadows across the worn tarmac below. Behind the growing brilliance, I can faintly track Legend and Alexandria movements, their forms blurring as they shoot upwards into the sky, Legend’s hands spreading wide as he gains altitude, focusing down at my form.</p><p> </p><p>“Eidolon!” she sharply calls out to the man below, the sound of her voice all but buried under the crackling of thousand of volts.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>MOVE</em>
</p><p> </p><p>With the deafening crack-BOOM of lightning that is far, <strong>far</strong> too close, the bolt lances into my chest, leaping the twenty feet separating us is a split second, and blowing me clean off my feet, sending me skidding down the tarmac, shell-shocked from the sheer impact of the bolt. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fuckfuckfuckwhy</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rolling to a hasty stop, I shoot to my feet, running my hands over the bolt’s point of entry, looking for any pain, some kind of wound. There is none, not even soot remaining on my threadbare flannel. The unholy sound of howling air shakes me from my navel-gazing, drawing my attention to the black hole Eidolon has just thrown at my face, screaming as it tears through the air towards me. The concrete below my feet fractures, fist-sized pieces pulled from the ground to hurtle towards towards the gaining event horizon, heralded by a spinning accretion disk made of trapped light and orphaned atoms, the air itself screaming in agony as it is torn apart, atom from atom, mere meters from my face.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> <strong>HOLY FUCKING SHIT RUN</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Turning and sprinting forward with everything I had learned from my previous chase, I only barely outpace the tarmac’s systemic obliteration as the cataclysmic roaring of displaced air behind me gets closer and closer, practically nipping at my heels as I run. At this time, Legend chooses to start bombarding me with lasers dyed a cold blue. The first ones miss, their paths distorting and falling into the black hole behind me but quickly finds his mark with the subsequent ones, branching fractals of ice adhering to my pumping legs, thankfully shearing off instantly as I move, shards of ice falling into the gravity well behind me.. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Need to get out of its path</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Another crack splits the night, a flash of light bathing the ground in front of me, albeit heavily distorted as if it had traveled through a few feet of water beforehand. My shoulders tense, expecting a bolt between the shoulders, yet the impact doesn’t come, only more howling from the black hole behind me. The pull seems hungrier now, more concrete cracking apart in front of me as I go and the noise has only increased, the rush of air becoming more and more distorted. I’m also running out of runway at an unnerving rate, only a little more than a hundred feet before it turns into a sloping hill. I need to do something. Now.</p><p> </p><p>So I jump, legs working to perform a surprisingly powerful long jump, the concrete under my feet shattering into power beneath my feet as I desperately push myself into the air. The ground drops out from under me, the ravenous singularity, still glowing a bright, radioactive green from the trapped lightning, continuing forward and devouring the remaining tarmac under it’s greedy gravity. Internally sighing in relief, I look down, trying to estimate where exactly I’m going to land. Unfortunately, as I am still hurtling through the air, it is very hard to resist outside forces, something Alexandria decides to remind me of as she rams into my back at what I can only estimate was somewhere around mach ten.</p><p> </p><p><em>guh</em>  </p><p> </p><p>My course is instantly changed, now instead of travelling in a nice, safe, predictable parabola arcing safely over the hazard, I am instead hurtling straight towards the howling hole in reality itself. Opening my mouth wide in a soundless scream, I close my eyes and brace my arms over my face. In the instant before I hit, I feel the indescribable feeling of attempted spaghettification upon an invulnerable form, the rippling of countless changing gravities pulling at my arm even as it breaks the event horizon in half. </p><p> </p><p>In a noise completely unlike shattering glass, the black hole detonates, the blast wave propagating across the airfield, hurricane scale winds tearing over the tarmac, flattening grounded planes and picking up what loose debris that hadn’t already been devoured by the errant singularity and tossing them miles away. The sheer scale of the explosion shatters windows across the city, the immense flash of light blinding any who look upon it. Geiger counters set within the many government and military buildings throughout the city begin to click, slowly at first but then much, much faster. In the minutes following the blast, the endbringer sirens will begin to blare, the local authorities convinced that this was only the opening shot of Behemoths rampage.</p><p> </p><p>I do not know any of this. I am busy standing in a massive hole, surrounded by fire and destruction for the third time tonight. It is starting to become a very unwelcome pattern. Looking up into the once more smoke choked sky I wonder if it would just be easier to go to the Birdcage, do whatever they want me to do, just to stop the unceasing devastation my life has become. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>no, I’m not going to give up, not over this</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’ve got to do…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>something</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’ll figure it out later</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I swear</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>really gotta stop being so goddamned trusting</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As begin I climb out of the bottom of the truly gargantuan hole, inviolable fingers digging into the glassed sides of the crater, I cast my eyes around for the closest path to escape, not noticing the figure floating high above, tatters of a grey costume clinging to her statuesque form. She looks down at me, face briefly contorting in mute hatred, not knowing to whom it is directed towards.  Realizing her loss of control, she retreats to her stony facade, face made forcibly blank before turning towards the stricken city, all too much to be done, and no time for regret.</p><p> </p><p>“Door.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was very fun to write, not gonna lie. There may be a few parts that y’all might not agree with but I honestly feel this is the best path for my story as a whole.</p><p> </p><p>Also, Alexandria’s command of “Eidolon.” basically means: “Eidolon, do your incredibly dangerous shit while we get out of your way and we’ll hit them when they don’t expect it” It's a surprise every time!</p><p> </p><p>I hope you enjoyed this!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Still Waters Run Deep - Montgomery, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As soon as my head crests the shifting ridge of the crater, I am met with an intense gust of super-heated air directly to the eyes, the sheer force of it nearly shoving me off my precarious perch. Regaining my grip, I squint into the wind, trying to cast my gaze deep into the storm, searching for something, anything that was not the debris surrounding me on all sides. I see nothing, no indicator of where to go, no lights piercing through the heavy cloud of dust, just the breathless howl of the wind and the distant wail of an air raid siren.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>christ</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’ve got to go</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Shifting unsteadily on my feet, I do the only thing I can, walk forward and hope I don’t get lost. I cover my eyes as shattered pieces of concrete are propelled faster than bullets through the maelstrom to ricochet off my form, their impacts resonating through my form as try to muddle my way through.</p><p> </p><p>The first steps are uneasy, almost falling as the treacherous earth underneath my feet shifts under my weight, as I am forced into a hunched posture, desperately trying to stay upright in the face of the punishing wind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>feel like I’m about to lose my grip</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>there’s gotta be something I c-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Blinking slowly, I tentatively straighten up, moving my arm away from my eyes, standing unprotected in the middle of the maelstrom that I had instinctively shied away from a moment ago. Nothing happens, I’m not borne up into the air, I’m not killed when a jagged bit of a tree lashes out from the opaque wall of dust to slam ineffectually into my clavicle. Scared the shit out of me, but it didn’t hurt in the least.</p><p> </p><p><em>well, </em>I think faintly<em>, that’s nice</em></p><p> </p><p>From there it’s easy to stay upright, my feet slapping against shattered concrete and bare earth alike, nothing but the faint sensation of heat on my soles, even though I know it’d probably sear the flesh from my bones if I wasn’t the Siberian. It feels like a notification, a detached reminder that what I’m touching is how rather than any kind of actual pain response. </p><p> </p><p>As I continue further on, the cloud gets more and more sparse, my vision clearing and able to penetrate into the smog more than a few feet. The ground underneath gets more uniform, the shattered concrete disappearing into what was probably once an access road, now nothing but packed earth surrounded by hills of more bare earth, the grass that was once present obliterated under the heat and pressure of the blast. Scorched skeletons of trees lay flat on the ground, every single one toppled like dominos, stripped of any bark and leaves leaving only charcoaled trunks behind. </p><p> </p><p>Off to my right, the bodies of dozens of fish bob violently in the boiling water of a small lake, great plumes of steam rising off the surface to join the incredible amount of dust already present in the air. As I continue, more and more trees are still standing, if on fire, vast pyres of flame stretching dozens of feet into the air as second long cyclones of fire whirl haphazardly through the trees.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fuckin’ deja vu</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I lose track of time in that cloud, the beat of my steps turning into a loping jog through the dust and smoke. Spending another minute inside this, seeing everything destroyed by my hand yet again is just… depressing. Finally, after a few minutes of jogging through the flaming ruins of a once healthy forest, I break through a tree line, suddenly finding myself running in a massive field of unburnt if somewhat dust-covered soybeans. Slowing to a stop, I quickly notice that the airborne dust has thinned out from the air, now being able to see clearly once more.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’m out!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>thank fuck</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Temporarily giddy, I grin up at the sky, arching my spine to the truly disappointing lack of satisfying cracks as I do so. This is when I notice the cloud behind me, its vast top hanging threateningly above me, the entire thing lit a poisonous orange from the wildfires burning underneath. I turn around slowly, my smile dropping from my face as I behold the unmistakable form of a mushroom cloud rising high into the sky before me. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>dear god</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>ho-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>how did this even happen?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s too much to comprehend, the betrayal, the explosion, the fucking <em>black hole</em>, so much that I can only sink to my knees in front of the towering cloud, trying to piece it together one point at a time. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Alexandria</em>
</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>just</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>why?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>why betray me?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I would’ve helped!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I know I would’ve</em>
</p><p> </p><p>My hands dig deep into the soil, viciously kneading the earth beneath my palms, absentmindedly snapping roots and grinding rocks into dust between inviolable fingers.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Is it a path?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>some convoluted way to get me to kill someone?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>then why not just fucking ask?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I just nuked a fucking city!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>how many people are dead because of me?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>goddamn it why?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> <strong>why!</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I want to be screaming in rage, to cry out into the night but no matter how much I try, how much my emotions build inside my chest nothing comes out. So I tear at the ground, again and again, the earth rent apart under my blows, soybean plants disappearing under the force of my anger. The catharsis feels good, the simple act of destruction being the only way I can actually express myself, get some of the anger that’s been building up inside out. </p><p> </p><p>When I finally wind down to a stop, everything within arms distance has been thoroughly ground, minced, and rendered down into an unidentifiable paste. Even as I rise unsteadily to my feet, I am silent, not even granted the luxury of breathing. I tilt my head up to look at the mushroom cloud looming overhead and mentally sigh, forcibly unclenching my jaw and rolling my shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>right</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I should go</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>this place’ll be crawling with…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>well, everyone probably</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>least I’ve got a crime all to myself now</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wish it wasn’t nuclear terrorism, but hey what can you do</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Shaking my head, I turn away from the cloud and begin to run, cutting through the defined lanes of soybeans, leaves brushing lightly against my legs as I sprint past them. A dirt road flashes under my feet, crossing it in two loping strides noticing it as I’m already sprinting through the next field.</p><p> </p><p>As I get farther and farther away from the towering mushroom cloud, the air gets cleaner, less choked with radioactive dust. The run helps to clear my mind as well, the barest bones of a plan beginning to percolate through my mind. It’s simple but the slightest bit of direction can do nothing but help me at this point.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>get the fuck out of here</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>lay low, far away from here</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>maybe with internet</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>figure some shit out</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>plan my next move</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>real simple</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As I nod to myself, my legs pump like pistons across an empty field, sprinting towards the next bank of trees, dirt spraying up behind me. It’s nice to have some semblance of a goal again.As I tear straight through the sparse woods, I realize far too late that the wide space beyond the trees is not another field to be easily run across but surprisingly a somewhat deep river, something that is made clear to me as soon as I trip forward, the ground disappearing out from under my feet, sending me headlong into the water.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>shit!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>To my surprise I sink like a stone, thrashing desperately against the cold, murky water, my legs wildly kicking, trying to swim back to the surface before my breath ru-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wait a minute</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I physically cannot breathe</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The panic running rampant through my veins vanishes as quickly as it had come, my limbs frozen in place as I sink, what had once been desperate air-seeking spasms now seem almost embarrassing, as if I had forgotten where my glasses were and then told that I was still wearing them. As my bare feet settle upon the accumulated silt of the river bottom, I look up into utter darkness, slitted eyes straining to catch a glimpse of the light I know to be there. Nothing. My eyes close. No difference.</p><p> </p><p>It’s odd being underwater like this, not having to worry about my air, the water in my eyes or the fear of fish hooks underfoot. It’s peaceful, like sitting in a pitch-black room after a long day at work, and just as tempting. To stand here in the rippling dark for a while sounds like the best thing in the world. But I need to keep moving. I know I do.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>can I even float?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I wave my hand through the dark water, wincing as I notice the absolute lack of resistance to the movement. Lacking anything else to try, I paddle up into the water, trying to gain some height. Nada. Just water being shoved around without me actually moving an inch</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>so, no</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>can’t swim, can’t fly</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>could walk</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wouldn't be able to see, but there’s really only one place i’m going to end up</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>eh why not</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>feels nice enough down here</em>
</p><p> </p><p>After quickly checking that I was actually walking the right way, I set off across the river bottom, roughly orienting myself towards the opposite bank by keeping the feeling of the current pushing against my skin to my left. This being a good-sized river, it takes about five minutes to get to the other side, my journey being almost entirely devoid of excitement, save for an incredibly confused bass smacking into my side halfway through. Emerging from the water like a particularly ungainly crocodile, I squirm back onto solid land, icy water sluicing off my skin and clothes like they’re made of teflon. In a few seconds I’m entirely clean and dry, an indescribably weird sensation, even the mud smeared along my front refusing to stick for more than a few seconds. </p><p> </p><p>Struggling to my feet, my eyes are drawn back to the other side of the river, taking in the view of the slowly disintegrating mushroom cloud, the enormous formation of radioactive dust losing its shape as more and more of its mass follows the prevailing wind patterns in the area. The radiation is probably going to be a problem, but they do have Behemoth here, so there's probably something set up for widespread radiation sickness. Hopefully.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wait</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>am I radioactive?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>the river washed it off</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>right?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, I can’t see radiation and I don’t remember that being one of the Siberian’s many powers, so instead,  I just look real hard at my arm. It looks flat and monochrome in the low light, albeit absolutely spotless, free of any mud or dust that I had expected to see, having just run out of a nuclear explosion and all. I think that's a good sign, but I’m not the one in danger. My clothes might be radioactive, I don’t know how my powers work. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’ll take a very, very long shower </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>then change clothes</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>that’ll help</em>
</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>huh</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>I think I’ve lost control of my life,</em> I morosely think to myself as I resume my run</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m just going to say, no one expected the black hole to detonate that badly, not Alexandria, not Eidolon and not the SI. This is one of those things that can be chalked up to a complete accident of competing powers.</p><p>And about them choosing to do this in the middle of the city, this took place at the edge of the runway at Maxwell airforce base, which in this fic, houses some PRT squads and, while not incredibly isolated, is far enough away from the city proper to be somewhat discreet.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Retreat Is, In Itself, A Victory - Montgomery, AL - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A distant siren moans through the midnight air, almost entirely drowned out by the noise of the night-time forest surrounding me on both sides, the buzzsaw whine of cicadas ever-present even in this universe. It would almost be comforting, save for the fact that they’re cicadas, nature's shittiest insect, born only to scream and fly directly into innocent children’s eyes. Little fuckers. This scathing commentary runs through my head as I continue sprinting forward, weaving under the titanic shadows of the electrical towers, their steel skeletons creaking in the stiff wind blowing in from behind me.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>little red plane safety lights are dark</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>probably the EMP</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dark silhouettes of trees flash by as I draw closer to the source of the siren, the droning noise slowly growing more defined and overpowering the cicadas. It’s… different from any siren i’ve heard. It’s not a nuclear attack siren from the movies, nor the tornado siren I’ve heard a few times before. This is something entirely different. Three short blasts, each one rising in tone before a pause and then repeating, again and again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>huh, doesn't sound like a air-raid siren</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>maybe it co-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>endbringer siren</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>shit</strong>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Breaking my sprint, I jog to a stop in the long, uncut grass and begin to actively listen, shutting my eyes as I strain my ears for anything… endbringeresque happening around me. The sound of rushing water, more explosions, or whatever the Simurgh’s song might sound like, anything at all that seems out of place.</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>Nothing, just siren and cicadas competing for control, the faint rustling of the leaves blowing in the wind and a bullfrog croaking low and deep in a nearby pond.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>unless the cicadas are actually the Simurgh’s song?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>nah</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>annoying but not that annoying</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>so that means the sirens are for me</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>or, you know, that</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Scratching my hair stubble, I look back up at the cloud that once could have been compared to a mushroom, its structure almost completely gone, drifting off into the sky. It’s still lit from underneath, fires continuing to burn the surrounding forest to ash. The blast itself must’ve woken everyone within a few dozen miles; no wonder they popped the alarms.</p><p> </p><p>Forcing my eyes away from the scene, I am soon back to running through the dark, once again hoping I’m not making a mistake.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, the thin grassy corridor I’m running through — a clearing made for the electrical towers — widens, flat plains of manicured grass stretching out for hundreds of acres. As I veer to the right to avoid a hill, the location finally clicks. I’m on a golf course, a massive expanse of empty space, bereft of anyone but myself. It’s a sign of civilization at the very least, something that tells me that I’m not entirely alone. Unfortunately, as a golf course is essentially a prettied up field, there is absolutely nothing for me to use here. But it can lead me somewhere else.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>should find the clubhouse</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>follow the road out</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Scanning the treeline, I spot a three story, incredibly fancy building sitting off in the distance, its lights off and windows vacant, and I veer over towards it. After all of the time I’ve spent in forests today, it’s nice to actually be able to run over a nice, flat stretch of ground without worrying if I’m about to crash through a tree. In no time at all, I’m looking in through the windows to the interior of the building, chairs stacked on tables in a lavish reception area. Not a surprise; not many people like to golf at midnight.  A quick mosey around shows me the lack of any car parked in the asphalt lot out front, but does reveal the exit to the course..</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>nice</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The road leads me to a tiny gated neighborhood, a sign displayed in front of a small empty guardhouse proudly emblazoned with the name Eastwood. I cast a look down the unlit street, windows dark and garage doors gaping. They clearly left in a rush and I really don’t blame them. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>might be a good idea to look around</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>maybe find an car to take</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>that’d be useful</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As I consider my next move, I slowly walk through the wide open gate, eyeing each house as I pass. Suddenly, I notice two shadowy figures moving in the darkness, the low hubbub of their voices drifting down the street. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>holy shit</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>people</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Legs frozen in place, I stare at their dark silhouettes. I really don’t need to deal with random people right now, being possibly radioactive and an ex-serial killer currently escaping from a nuclear crime scene I'm pretty sure is going to be blamed entirely on me. But good god, do I ever want to talk with someone normal, someone who isn’t a super-anything, and just possibly someone who isn’t terrified that I’m about to eat their face. Is that so much to ask?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>apparently</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Well hey there, stranger!” a very southern voice drawls from down the street, his waving arm barely visible through the gloom as he approaches. “Hell of a thing that just happened, ain't that right?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wait a fucking minute, what are they doing outside?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>a nuke just went off!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He chuckles good naturedly as he ambles closer to me. “I know, I know, I should go down to the shelter, but I know Behemoth, and this is not Behemoth. You know, I was living in New York when it was attacked! If this were Behemoth, we’d all be dead by now. I saw that scaly bastard with my own two eyes and lemme tell you that is not a sight I will soon forget! He was at least a hundred feet tall and had an eye li...” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>oh dear god</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>small talk</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The second shadow comes up behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder, resolving into an older blonde woman cutting off the portly man’s rambling story with her own, equally southern, interjection.</p><p>.</p><p>“Alright Honey, stop bothering her, you know people don’t much care for your war stories,” she says, before turning to me and extending one of her hands out to me with a broad smile. “Sorry ‘bout him. Hi, I’m Carolyn and this is my husband, John.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I cannot shake this woman's hand</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I legitimately might tear it off by accident</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carolyn stares at me, smile losing its genuineness as the wait gets longer, still hopefully holding her hand out for me to shake. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>oh god it's getting awkward</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>just stare at it until it goes away</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She slowly retracts her hand, trading glances with her husband as she does so. Squinting in the dark gloom of the moonless night, she traces the lines of my face, then sweeps downward, cataloging my body and clothes in about a second flat. Her face twists as she meets my eyes again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>ok this is it</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>she’ll scream and run and I can get away from this trainwreck of an interaction</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Are you wearin’ Siberian makeup?” Carolyn says disbelievingly, her tone becoming more and more accusatory as she continues along her train of thought. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>what</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“That is incredibly disrespectful young lady! I cannot believe that you would think that would be proper to wear that sort of thing anywhere!  Did you think it would be clever to mimic those-those murderers? Well I don’t...”</p><p> </p><p>The rest of her surely terrifying rant washes over me like waves breaking upon a rock. It’s just so goddamn surreal, standing in an empty neighborhood backlit by a mushroom cloud while  wearing the skin of a web novel serial killer being berated for wearing a costume of the same by a very angry southern woman. I just walk away midway through her rant, giving John a wave before I vanish back into the inky darkness. I honestly don’t think either of them really keyed into what the hell was going on.</p><p> </p><p>With the whole “finding a car inside a garage that the evacuating people hadn’t already taken” idea coming to nothing, I need a new plan. Something that isn’t just “keep running and see what comes to fuck me up next”, cause I can say that that is not working out well. All I’ve got right now is getting a car and getting out of here faster, which admittedly has its own perks, namely not being here.</p><p> </p><p>I’m still thinking through my options as I emerge from the end of the road to see an entire unlit retail park stretch before me, complete with restaurants, a few different department stores, and a singular car dealership off in the distance.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>well damn, that makes things easier</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A few minutes later, I’ve successfully forded the highway splitting the park right down the middle, arrived right in front of the car lot, and started running my eyes over all there is to offer. I take a step inside the metaphorical border of the dealership, heading towards the central office where I know the keys are kept. Butterflies riot in my stomach as I approach the front door, pausing in front of it as I collect my thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>this is illegal</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>literal grand theft auto</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’ll go to jail if I get caught</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>but I’m the motherfucking siberian</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>and I think this is the least of my worries</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Resolutely pushing my hands forward, I force the locked door open, glass shattering under the force as the lock shears apart. My stomach drops and I have the sudden urge to drop what I’m doing and run, to try to get away before the police come. Instead, I step inside, controlling myself and making sure I follow through. Glass clatters to the ground as I move across the showroom floor, the tinkling sound echoing through the silent building. Scanning the clean interior lines of the dealership, I look for a small locked box, something that should contain all the keys for the cars.</p><p> </p><p>Walking into the suite of offices behind the counter, I find the box mounted to the wall, sporting a tough looking key-code lock. Out of curiosity, I poke a few buttons and receive an accusing beep while it flashes red just to rub it in. In response I tear through the lock and drop it to the floor,  pulling open the lockbox to reveal the prize inside. Dozens of keys glint back at me, a bevy of car brands, some of which I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen before. Pulling a few out from the box, I quickly rethink my strategy as I gently put them back and instead take the entire box out with me. </p><p> </p><p>As I test the fobs, running a critical eye over each car it corresponds to, I start to ponder which of the cars to actually take. I know the smart thing to do would be picking the least memorable, most common car and trying to get lost in the crowd. But on the other hand, I really want to drive the red Ferrari right out of the showroom and roar down the highway at ninety miles an hour. Unfortunately, Ferrari’s get absolutely terrible mileage and aren’t exactly stealthy, something that would be bad on the best of days, nevermind now as I’m a fugitive running from the law. So unfortunately, my choice is instead a nondescript car, a random red sedan parked off in the corner, with a spotless interior and full tank of gas, everything I need for a clean getaway.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>excepting style</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s one thing left to do before I go, and that’s deciding what to do with the box full of keys I’m still somewhat awkwardly holding. I don’t really want to have someone steal all of their cars but I’m not about to go and bury this somewhere with a note. So I pinch the box shut, inviolable fingers deforming the steel like play-doh, before leaving it on the floor of the dealership. That should work out alright, I hope.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>alright</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>just gotta get in the car without it collapsing</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>and then drive it out safely</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Gingerly laying my hand upon the chassis, I flex a now familiar mental muscle and push invulnerability into the car. Then, maintaining contact with the car, I climb in, settling into the seat and fixing my hands on the steering wheel, giving it a brief tug to make absolutely sure I’m not about to destroy it just by turning. Thankfully, it doesn't, remaining whole and not torn to shreds. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fantastic</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>let's get outta here</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As the key turns, the engine rumbles into life, the interior softly glowing and displaying the time. Apparently it's actually 2:37 A.M, which is somewhat surprising. This night feels like it's been going on forever and somehow it's only 2:30? Shaking off my disbelief at the time, I flip on the headlights, tighten my seatbelt and pull out of the lot.There’s no direction for me to go, but away from the explosion which was… over there. So I turn onto the empty highway, smiling as I do. I’m leaving this place behind, and I'll be able to get my bearings back, take a look at my situation from a more calm point of view. All very welcome things and the only thing that could make it better is some music. As the noise of the road begins to percolate into my being I poke a few buttons on the dash, hoping one of them turns on a radio. I’m successful after the eighth blind press, resulting in a car full of dead air, filaments of static distorting the silence. The other stations are no better and I am reduced to twisting the knob back and forth, trying to find something that isn’t just static.</p><p> </p><p>One of the channels is instantly recognizable, an emergency broadcast, the computer generated voice caught in the middle of its spiel.</p><p> </p><p>“<strong>-as been a nuclear detonation in the area of: Montgomery County. If you are hearing this broadcast and are within: Montgomery County, Lowndes County or Autauga County, immediately seek shelter in the nearest Endbringer Protection Bunker. Remain inside and wait for further instructions. Message repeats.</strong><em>”</em></p><p> </p><p>A trio of grating beeps follow the message before I shut the radio off.</p><p> </p><p>I drive on in silence.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So apparently I've been ignoring the location bit in my title, forgetting to change Aubrun to literally anything else, so I've fixed that up.</p><p>Hope y'all enjoy this chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Fleeing the Scene of the Crime - U.S Route 80 - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta, AviMavi!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's a surprisingly quiet drive, if one discounts the piercing wail of air-raid sirens. The late hour has translated into a lack of any real traffic, even under the shadow of a nuclear detonation. A few panicked drivers race past my car at a blistering pace, their red tail lights disappearing into the cloudy night’s gloom. From the opposite direction, an eclectic collection of SWAT vans, fire trucks and ambulances speed towards the now distant city, their red and blue lights strobing through the dark. Nervously, my eyes closely track the loose convoy as it flashes past me, but luckily, none of them even slow down, all too focused on the problem ahead. Alertness and paranoia combine within my body, keeping me on a constant, nail-biting lookout, half-convinced that at any second, Alexandria could drop down from the sky like a comet and knock the car clean off the road.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But nothing happens. The sirens fade, the cloud disperses and I make a clean escape.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the mushroom cloud passes over the horizon at long last, whatever material posing as my muscles slowly begins to relax, knots of tension loosening as the minutes stretch on without anything happening. No one smashes their way into my car or challenges me to a life-or-death battle. Nothing breaks the tree-line and demands help. There’s only the road and the normal, everyday decisions I’ve done thousands of times before. Turning, watching for other drivers and keeping in my lane. Simple, easy and not going to kill anyone, unlike the other choices I’ve had to make today.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>However, I have absolutely no idea where I am going, only that it is away from the blast, away from everything that happened tonight. I’ve got no idea if I’m going in any particular direction, the moon’s covered by clouds and the car manufacturers apparently decided that this car didn’t deserve a compass, let alone any kind of GPS. So I just drive, trying to keep a healthy distance from the few other cars on the road lest they see me too clearly, while I squint at the road-side signs, trying to find a city name I recognized, with no real luck.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Freed from anything else to think about, my mind takes the opportunity to look back, to obsess over every aspect of this last night, the three people I’ve killed, the black hole, everything. I still can’t get their faces out of my head, the feeling of their flesh and bone parting under my hands. The question of what I could have done different runs through my head on a nigh-endless loop. Could I have deescalated the fight with Crawler or Mannequin? Disabled them somehow instead of killing them outright? I know what horrors they had perpetrated, that all three of them deserved to die and Crawler probably couldn't be wounded enough that he wouldn't immediately get back up and try again, but I can’t help but feel there was some other way. And the fight with the Protectorate! Was everything that happened there because of me? Was Alexandria acting of her own accord or was it Contessa affecting the outcome with some sort of Path? Did they really want me to accidentally nuke a city? What possible reason would they have for that?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I know the end goal, I know their history, but why this in particular?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>can’t help but feel like i’m dangling at the end of a string</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>And last time that happened I woke up covered in viscera</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>christ, this has been such a long day</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A subdued crack from underneath my hands rudely shakes me from my thoughts. I blink, glancing down to the wheel. I’m tense again, striped fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel, shark-like teeth grinding tight against each other. With exacting care, I detach one finger at a time from the wheel, wincing as the deep indents in the faux-leather are slowly revealed. Then I notice that I’m pushing ninety miles an hour, my foot firmly pressed on the accelerator even as dark impressions of trees flash by.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>alright let's slow down a bit</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>really don’t want to deal with cops on top of everything else</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Taking my foot off the accelerator, I let out a mental sigh, and flick my eyes to the rear-view mirror, belatedly scanning the road for flashing lights. There's nothing but trees; it seems like they have bigger fish to fry tonight. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Like….. me, I suppose.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>huh</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I’m a fugitive.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>an enemy of the state</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wanted by the U.S government for murder and, uh, nuclear terrorism</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The corners of my mouth twitch upward.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fuckn’ surreal</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I turn left onto the interstate, heading west.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My train of thought idly drifts over to my particular set of circumstances as I drift along behind a semi-truck, internally debating whether or not to risk passing it. The Siberian isn’t a great person to be — cannibalistic serial killers rarely are in my experience — but I can’t ignore the perks. Invulnerability and a coherent aesthetic? Almost makes up for everything else.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Considering everything in Bet, it could easily have been worse, for at least this body has enough power to give me options, some kind of choice over my own actions. If I was put into Jack Slash, or Taylor, or someone else trapped by circumstance… If Jack Slash tried to run he’d be killed within a week. His power is the people he surrounds himself with, and I could not hope to keep the Nine around for any appreciable length of time, either by them murdering me or being killed by the heroes later down the line. Taylor… well, A. I don’t like bugs, B. she’s a teenage girl with all that that entails. And C. I’d have to go back to high school. I’ve already gone through that once, glad I don’t need to do it again. There’s also the existential horror of subsuming someone’s mind and then assuming control of their life, something I am very glad does not apply to the Siberian. I’m just controlling a puppet after all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>gotta look on the bright side, huh?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>….</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>heh</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>~got no strings on me~</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I take a right, turning onto a two lane highway carving its way through the trees, still heading west</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The better part of an hour passes before I drive through my seventh blink-and-you-miss-it small town, my eyes alighting upon a row of run-down houses, faint lights peeking through closed curtains indicating that the effects of the blast were felt even out here, miles and miles away. While my eyes idly run over the houses, my mind fixates on what I had thought as freedom, on what I, as the Siberian, was capable of. And then it hits me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I truly could do whatever I want.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I could stop the car, go right on over to that charming little one-story house, walk straight through their door and proceed to kill and eat everyone inside. Then do it again to the next house, and the next and so on until I choose to stop.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>No one could hope to stop me.</em>
</p>
<p><em><br/></em> <em>Nobody had ever stopped the Siberian .</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I shudder, locking my eyes on the reflectors lining the road in front of me and away from the house, its squat form already receding in the rear-view mirror.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>christ</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>no</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I’m better than that</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I know I am.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>I'll </em> <em> <strong>never </strong> </em> <em>do something like that</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I’m not like Manton</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>god</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>just put the radio on</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Scrubbing harshly at my scalp, I turn to the radio, a light poke at the power switch eliciting a deafening hiss of static to erupt forth from the speakers. Hastily spinning the dial away from the dead air, I’m pleasantly surprised to find an instantly recognizable song filling the cabin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>heh</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>ain’t that ironic</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I leave the city limits of Atkesion, Alabama with a wry smile on my face, tapping the dented steering wheel to the beat with a singular monochrome finger.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>~I gotta feeling~</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>~woooohooooo~</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>~That tonight’s gonna be a good night~</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>~That tonight's gonna be a good night~</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>After almost exactly three hours of driving, I cross the border into Mississippi</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Turns out there’s a lot of new music on Bet. Well, not new but not present in my own dimension. Makes me wonder if any artists I know are parahumans here. Maybe Canary is actually Taylor Swift or something. The radio DJ keeps his spiel going, even as he mentions the “terrible tragedy of Eidolon’s near-death experience at the hands of the Siberian.” Apparently, a black hole exploding a hundred feet away didn’t do much for his complexion. Admittedly, I don’t feel too much guilt. He threw it at me and he’s undoubtedly just going to walk it off just fine. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>didn’t say anything about other fatalities</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Legend made it out alright, which is nice, and Alexandria has already made a few statements about what happened, all of which, ah, aren’t great for me, with “Dangerous and Unpredictable” being the exact descriptors used, and while I’m not sure if that's any worse than anything the true Siberian got, it doesn't exactly feel great. No mention of any mastering, not that I expected anything quite so candid. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Verdandi and Bonfire... there's nothing on them. They were both in an ambulance, tearing away from the confrontation. The explosion itself was… five or so minutes after we touched down so depending on its size they could have gotten out alright. I’m pretty sure if it was city-destroyingly big, “DJ Steel” would have made a bigger fuss.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>still, more info would be useful</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>hrm</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>don’t have a phone, so can’t check anything there</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>could grab a hotel room, watch some CNN or whatever equivalent Bet has</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>should have enough money for t-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>my bank account doesn't exist here</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>shit</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With almost malevolent glee, a tiny red light embedded in the dashboard picks this exact moment to blink on. Hissing silently through my teeth, I squint down at the indicator, the arrow pointing concerningly close to a small glowing E. It would seem that I am almost out of gas.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>double shit</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>The next exit promises food, gas and lodging. I gladly take it .</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sky is just beginning to lighten as I pull into the cracked parking lot of the “All-American Inn” located in the outskirts of the distinguished town of Russel, Mississippi, which consists of a church, two competing auto shops and a singular gas-station. The hotel proudly sports a garish recreation of the american flag emblazoned across its entire front, the red, white and blue paint faded over what must have been decades. The lot is empty but for a single rusted pick-up truck parked next to the tiny front office.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>well</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>at least the rampant nationalism has stayed the same</em>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>The engine rumbles to a stop and I sit in the sudden silence of a pre-dawn morning, considering my options. I’ve got no money, but I really want to lay down for a bit. I’m not tired, not physically at least, but this has been such a fucking long day, and the chance to take a load off for a few hours is a siren call I cannot resist. I don’t want to threaten whoever works here so I’m just going to walk up to the furthest room, quietly break in and put something heavy in front of the door. I’ll stay here for a few hours, decide where to go next, get gas and leave. Easy. Unless, of course, the guy sees me. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>right then,</em> I think, pocketing the keys.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>crime time</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Opening the door, I lever myself from the confines of the car, performing a completely unnecessary stretch to remove phantom pains from my dubiously-existent spine. The way is clear, so far as I can tell — no one snooping from the darkened windows of the motel and no one driving by. I proceed slowly towards the office, picking my steps across the cracked and worn asphalt with care, making sure to stay out of sight from the window.  It is all for naught; as I grow closer, my anxiety drops off, the man’s reverberating snores making it abundantly clear that he will not be spotting anyone. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I suddenly feel very foolish, skulking outside a deserted motel in rural Mississippi, hiding from a sleeping man.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Scratching at my shorn hair, I sheepishly walk to the other side of the lot, taking the room farthest from the still snoring man. The lock is old, and the door itself is in dire need of repainting, the red paint adhering to the wood by sheer determination alone. Getting through the door would be simplicity itself; just walking forward would utterly obliterate the aged wood, but that would be, how do you say, very goddamn noticeable. Instead, I firmly pierce the lock with an outstretched finger, tarnished brass crumpling under the force and producing a brief scream of tortured metal. I freeze in place, casting my eyes back to the front office, where the faint sound of snoring continues unabated. A wry smile quirks my lips.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fantastic</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>my second successful B&amp;E </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the door creaks open, I quickly slip inside, slitted eyes revealing the expected: a dim, musty room complete with twin double beds and requisite bland, ugly painting hung on the wall. The door is swiftly barred by a convenient mini-fridge and the blinds are drawn tight across the window facing the parking lot. Carefully lowering myself down onto starched sheets, I lace my fingers together behind my head as I sprawl out on the somehow still cramped double bed. Admittedly, it's a bit shit, but it’s exactly what I need: somewhere quiet and unassuming to relax for a few hours and catch my proverbial breath. </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>
  <em>yeah, this'll do just fine</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>God, it's been awhile. How have y'all been?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My exams knocked any semblance of enjoyment out from writing for a long while, but I feel like getting back in the groove of it all. Transitional chapters like this are so difficult to write but I promise I’ve got something coming up soon. I’m experimenting with having an actual plan in place for once, so let's see how that pans out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Also for y’all who don’t really like all the angst, i’ll be dialing back on that as well.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thanks for reading!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>P.S I’m always looking for more people to look over my work, talk over ideas, etc.. If anyone is interested please PM me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Not Until We Are Lost - Russel, MS - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta’s, AviMavi and Doccer</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hot showers just don't feel right anymore, the heat barely registering, while every square inch of my body seems to behave like teflon. Not a drawback I had thought of when I first arrived, squatting in another man’s entrails, but a drawback it is. It’s a small thing, make no mistake, but it’s still a niggling reminder of what I now am. The faucet, cranked as hot as it goes, sends steaming drops of water sliding frictionlessly down my body, refusing to even wet my hair in the process. For the last ten minutes, I’ve been trying fruitlessly to turn that sense of friction back on, to find that mental switch I know is there somewhere. It's incredibly frustrating, like trying to manually beat your own heart, something you can feel but never hope to actually control.</p><p> </p><p><em>c’mon,</em> I think accusingly at my splayed out hand, a tiny pool of water sloshing innocently in my palm.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I know you can do it</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>didn’t that napalm stick to my eyes earlier?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>My skin remains stalwart in the face of my impeccable logic, refusing to be any less hydrophobic. After a further second of intense concentration, I mentally sigh and tip my outstretched hand over to the side, the collected water sluicing off into the off-white, plastic floor of the hotel shower. Stepping out, I’m instantly thankful for the steam occluding the mirror, reducing my reflection to a vaguely dark blob. The subject of my gender is one I have made some semblance of peace with, in that I know that I am still a man, no matter the body I’ve found myself in. However, that does not mean I like being reminded of the fact that I am now, physically, a woman with all that that entails. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>well. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>skin deep at least. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>there's no telling what lies underneath that.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>beyond oil for blood</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>which is, ah, concerning to say the least</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Anyway, I don’t use the dubiously clean towel to dry off, the water not even staying on me for the time it took to step out from the shower and the towel undoubtedly dirtier than I was fresh from a nuclear explosion. To its credit, the shower makes me feel a little better, if only for peace of mind. As I put my stol- ah, <strong>thrifted </strong>clothes back on, I glance over at the TV, which is, following the trend of everything else at this hotel, approximately ten to fifteen years out of date and looks like it was used in a mugging. However, it does get basic cable and is currently tuned to the local news channel.</p><p> </p><p>I carefully lower myself on the remaining bed, the other one nothing more than a pile of springs and shredded fabric from where I had fallen backwards onto it on instinct, naively trusting it to easily take my weight. It had not and had only been further ruined when I tried to crawl out from it without further destruction. The push and hold sensation of invincibility going out is easier now, more natural to pull off.</p><p> </p><p>Moving my eyes from the wreck of the bed, I look back towards the TV, catching the end of the ad break for some random medication before a blocky graphic emblazoned with the station's name transitions into the image of a news set.</p><p> </p><p>At the booth, a heavy-set man is flanked by a woman with bleached blonde hair, both gravely facing the camera.  The man waits a beat before beginning his spiel. “If you’re only just joining us, several overnight developments have shed new light on the explosion at Maxwell Airforce Base, located in Montgomery, Alabama, a disaster that has left dozens dead and hundreds more injured.”</p><p> </p><p>My stomach sinks like a stone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>what?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“The cause for this catastrophe?” the woman says in a practiced, somber tone. “The Siberian, infamous member of the Slaughterhouse Nine, attacked following a brief stand-off with the Triumvirate, leading to an extended altercation ending with an apparent power conflict between Eidolon and the Siberian, the true cause of the explosion.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I don’t care</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>tell me who died</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Thankfully, Eidolon is doing well, reportedly using his wealth of powers to recover from his injuries,” the heavy-set man says, remaining grim. ”However, an unknown number of others have not been so lucky, such as those unfortunates living in a trailer park close to the blast, awakened from a deep sleep to raging fires and collapsing ceilings. Even now, relief teams are still pulling bodies from the wreckage....”</p><p> </p><p>I’m entirely sure he keeps speaking after this, his voice grave as he details what the authorities plan to do next and repeating warnings of the Siberian’s dangerous nature and unknown location, but I hear nothing, having sprawled backward on the bed, slitted eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>jesus</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>dozens dead</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>hundreds wounded</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>and it's all my fault</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>If I hadn’t been there...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>no</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I can’t think like that</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>no one knew what would happen, least of all me</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Eidolon threw it</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Alexandria pushed me into it</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It’s not my fault</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It’s theirs</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Cauldron and their lofty goals</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>throwing me under the bus for some arcane path to victory</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>….</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Silently groaning, I knead at my eye sockets with my palms, the utter absence of any moisture suddenly all too noticeable as I try and fail not to think about those who had died, alone and afraid in their collapsing homes be-</p><p> </p><p>....</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>christ</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>worst part is that I know I can’t do anything</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>can’t kill them for it</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>can’t try mess their shit up</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>can’t try to expose them</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I know the consequences if I manage to succeed</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>everyone dies</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>everywhere</em>
</p><p> </p><p>....</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>just what the he-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“This just in!” the blonde anchor proclaims, her urgent tone snapping me from an oncoming depressive spiral. “The Auburn Protectorate has recovered an alleged message from Jack Slash, notorious leader of the Slaughterhouse Nine.  The message was pinned to... “ Her face greys as she takes a deep breath. ”A collection of dead... bodies.“ She gestures towards the greenscreen behind her, upon which a few lines of text have been projected.</p><p> </p><p>It’s... addressed to me.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>To the Siberian</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Every family has their squabbles</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope you enjoy your hunting trip</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re welcome back anytime</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bonesaw will miss you!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Jack</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>FUCK</strong>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>FUCK FUCK FUCK SHIT FUCK</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Taloned fingers dig deep into the fabric of the bedspread, viscerally imagining that it is Jack's throat I’m tearing into instead, even as my teeth clench together, face locked in a grimace of rage. If I could I would be screaming in absolute rage.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>THAT SONOVABITCH</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’LL FUCKING KILL HIM</em>
</p><p> </p><p>With a sudden swipe of my arm, I wreck the remaining bed, bodily tossing it across the room to impact the shattered remains of the other, a cacophony of screeching metal and breaking wood rolling over my unhearing ears, my shaking hands all that I can comprehend. The hosts still live on the TV begin to talk again, only getting a few syllables out before I thrust my fist through the middle of the set, the crunch of electronics being abruptly obliterated bringing a resounding silence to the room. The television lets out a few sparks, the picture flickering once, twice and then nothing. I flex my fingers silently in the dark, suddenly very tired.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>well.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>shit.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>there goes any good first impression I could hope to achieve</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s a hubbub from outside the door, raised voices that make me snap my head to the side, suddenly intent. A cold sense of shame floods my body, the twisted wrecks of the beds and TV feeling less like a completely reasonable outburst and more like a childish tantrum.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>did someone hear me?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>the owner?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>the cops?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The voices get closer, and they sound angry, accusing. I shift uncomfortably, flexing my fingers as I watch the sunlight under the door ripple. I might have to make a quicker exit than I realized. </p><p> </p><p>The door is kicked open-</p><p> </p><p>In the next room over.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>ah thank god</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Slumping in relief, I look around the room again, guilt welling up as I look at the damage I had managed to cause in only a few seconds of anger. This isn’t exactly the most affluent hotel and I am technically squatting right now. Admittedly, I have no idea how I’d even try to re-</p><p> </p><p>“ -SAID GO FUCK YOURSELF, KROUSE!” an angry man’s voice screams out, easily piercing through the thin drywall.. </p><p> </p><p>Jerking in surprise, I stare back over towards the wall dividing our two rooms. There's a loud thud, like someone was just shoved into the wall. An incoherent babble of raised voices thoroughly muddies any further yelling.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Krouse?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wait-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I take a quick step over to the wall, pressing my ear against it and listening carefully for anything else.</p><p> </p><p>“-ave to do something and you know it,” a different voice says, male but so much less angry. “If we have to take a risk then-”</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you the one deciding it then?” the first guy interrupts, quieter this time. “Who made you the fuckin’ king?”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>am </em>the leader, Cody, we’ve had this discuss-” the other says, sounding frustrated now.</p><p> </p><p><em>the Travelers,</em> I think in numb disbelief, <em>out here?</em></p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t a fucking game Krouse, we’re not playing a fucking game anymore—haven't for a while now—and if we were I wouldn’t trust <em>you </em>to lead us,” Cody says, venom practically leaking from his words.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>what are the fucking odds?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“So who's it going to be then? Noelle’s refused every time I’ve asked so I guess it's got to be you then, huh?” Krouse says, a sneer audible in his voice. “That what you want?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I think it is,” Cody sneers back. “In fact-”</p><p> </p><p>“Could you two <em>please </em>be quiet?” another male voice pipes up, tiredness coloring his voice. “We’ve had far too much dick-measuring today to start again now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up, Luke.” “Shut up, Luke!” Both men say simultaneously, their mutual hostility not budging in the least.</p><p> </p><p>“This fucking asshole wants us to trust the word of a tatted up supervillan!” Cody says. “The least trustworthy guy I’ve ever fucking seen!”</p><p> </p><p>“I know!” Krouse exclaims, pausing for a second to gather his thoughts. “I know it’s sketchy, I know it might not work out, but we have to try. For Noelle.”</p><p> </p><p>It is silent for a long few seconds, the tension palpable even through the wall before Krouse speaks again.</p><p> </p><p>“I made a promise, Cody. I intend to see it through.”</p><p> </p><p>Another fraught second passes before Cody’s clipped reply.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine. <em>Fine</em>. But if this goes wrong-”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Krouse tiredly replies. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p><em>alright</em>, I think unsteadily, standing up against the wall. <em>okay</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>let me think about this</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The Travelers are here, in the room right next to me, planning to meet a “tatted-up supervillain” of unknown origin. He could be anyone, from the Elite, the Fallen or any number of villain groups I have no knowledge of. Of course, they're doing this to help out Noelle. The giant, man-eating S-Class threat, Echidna.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>this cannot be good</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>literally</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>the Simurgh has ordained it</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>maybe that's why they’re here</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>but what can I do?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>could confront them</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>yeah</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>but not here</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>not right now</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>follow them out, try to intercept them before they get to…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>where are they going?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>They’ve turned on the TV, the soft, strident voices of the announcers masking the Traveler’s own quiet conversations. That won’t do. I need to hear their next moves, where they’re going next and why they think it’s worth it. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.</p><p> </p><p>But I need more info. The only thing worse than not doing something is doing something badly. If I screw up again…</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I won’t</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Oh wow, the news says that the Siberian might be in the area,” a new voice, a woman, says nervously, breaking me from my fugue.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>heh</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, one town out of thousands in an area spanning three states, real fucking likely, Mars.” Cody replies caustically.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>well now you’re just tempting fate</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The volume on the TV increases, the wo-Mars apparently taking the initiative to defend her statement, further hindering my ability to hear anything other than an ungodly amount of crosstalk. I press closer to the wall, shutting my eyes to concentrate on the voices inside. One briefly picks up over the rest, a good natured laugh rolling forth from his lips.</p><p> </p><p>Luke, audible grin in his voice, says, “Hey now, it’s possible, it’s possible. I mean, with our luck, I bet she’s going to fall-”</p><p> </p><p>The wall gives a single warning creak.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>wha-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>And then I'm falling.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>oh shIT</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As the cheap drywall collapses inward, I push forward, instinctively slamming a hand into what remains of the wall and remember to shoving invulnerability into it, arresting my fall as I reacquire my footing. Thankfully, I manage to prevent myself from plowing face-first into the third bed of the last 24 hours, but not the initial fall, which results in my entire upper body punching a hole clean through the wall with a tremendous crack, shards of wood and clouds of drywall dust thoroughly coating the carpet below. I am now stuck half-way inside their room.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>SHIT</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>“.</em>..right ….through our …wall.<em>” </em>Luke trails off as he and the rest of the room’s occupants slowly swivel their heads to look at me.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>There is a long, dreadful silence, then everything descends into chaos.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Things are finally starting to kick off! His resting period is done and he’s ready to experience everything Bet has to offer.</p><p>On another note, I’ve been noticing a lot of confusion over the Si’s gender and what pronouns to use. For clarification, the SI is a guy(he/him) inhabiting the Siberian (she/her), unless you know that it’s a projection(it/its), which was originally controlled by William Manton(he/him). Basically, if you’re talking about the SI’s actions, use he/him, anything else, go wild.</p><p>Hope y’all like the chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Are We Finally Found Wanting - Russel, MS - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta’s, AviMavi and Doccer!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As I stand there, wedged chest deep in a stained motel wall, more uncomfortable than I have been for a very long time, I try to quickly think of some way I could possibly de-escalate the inevitable fight approaching like a particularly aggressive storm-cloud.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>well, ah</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I could-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>-grab... one? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>well...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eyes flitting to each of the Travelers, I take in the tension plain on their faces, terror drawing them pale and fearful even as their eyes remain locked upon me, on my eyes, my hands and my teeth. The guy nearest to the door, a teenager of indeterminate ethnicity wearing a tattered top hat, moves slightly, a shifting of his weight from one foot to the other even as his mouth works silently, trying and failing to say something.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>alright</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>they’re unsure</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>in a little bit of shock</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’re still not moving but that can change real quick. I need to do something to break the tension before they settle on either fight or flight, both being things I would rather not happen right now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>how about….</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Slowly, I raise the hand that isn’t currently digging into the wall and propping me up to the terrified young adults in front of me, my palm flat and fingers separated, the universal signal of ”hey look I don’t have a weapon please calm down.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It doesn't work. In fact, not only does it not work, but it backfires in the exact way I had dearly hoped it would not. The Travelers, already watching me, did not take my taloned, monochrome hand moving towards them well, abruptly standing and putting distance between them and me while eyeing the closed door and preparing to bolt. That is, except for Luke, someone who not only had to tempt fate but also has the misfortune to be the closest person to my emergence, and who has decided to take a slightly different tact. He breaks the horrified stillness permeating the room in a sudden burst of movement as he desperately digs into his jacket.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>please don’t be doing what I think you’re doing, </em>I think, my outstretched hand dropping slightly as I turn to look at him, my flannel abrading the edges of my drywall prison in the process.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If anything, this serves to further elevate his panic, as he produces a handful of ball bearings, wildly hurling them at me, their silvered surface reflecting the dim lamp-light of the room even as they vanish from his hand with an overlapping cacophony of cracks. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>shi-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before I can finish what was sure to be a particularly scathing critique on my current circumstances, I am rudely interrupted by a bearing deforming upon the surface of my eyeball, the lump of metal making a bid to replace it wholesale. I flinch backward even as everything around me is shredded under the hail of metal, scattershot holes the size of my fist punched through the drywall as the bed explodes into a plume of foam, faux feathers and muted fabrics. Several of the projectiles ping off my body as I recoil, both hands instinctively moving up to my face, rubbing my eye even as I stumble back into my own room.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>jesus!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>my fucking EYE</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the clatter of breaking wood and  other such fades away, it is replaced by panicked babbling and screaming from the next room followed by a second, louder crash, complete with the distinctive sound of glass shattering under tremendous force. I stumble back through the now monstrous hole in the wall to catch the last Traveler booking it through the new, massive hole in the front of the room, Luk- Ballistic? Ballistic having apparently kicked the bed clean through the wall. However, I see the aftermath of this somewhat surprising occurrence with a certain lack of depth perception. I try to blink and bodily cringe in visceral disgust.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>there’s something in my goddamn EYE</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>just gotta-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Holding my eyelids open, I gingerly work a fingernail under the flattened pancake of metal, and pop it out from my eyelid to fall down onto the ground below with a muted <em>tink</em>. I blink, once, twice and three times. Everything seems alright. Thankfully.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>good fucking </em>
  <em>
    <strong>god</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>hate ey-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wait</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>TRAVELERS</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My gaze flies to the hole in the wall, where the Travelers are fleeing towards a camper-van, a big bus-like thing I’ve seen come out of the woodwork every summer for my entire life, parked on the other side of the parking lot. For a brief moment I’m lost, I don’t know what to do, whether to try and catch them or just accept the loss and let them go to try again later.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>no</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I am not going through this shit again</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I am going to catch them and we are going to have a civilized discussion where everyone involved knows that I’m not a cannibalistic psychopath</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>and I will kindly explain why you should not shoot me in the fucking </em>
  <em>
    <strong>eye</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>by force if necessary </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gritting my teeth and flexing my fingers in preparation, I stride forth from the thoroughly destroyed motel room, bearing down on the closest Traveler. The Traveler, a tall, handsome man, hears the crunch of glass pulverized by my bare feet behind him and jolts his head back to look, shrieking in terror as I clamp a hand down on his shoulder, shoving invulnerability into his trembling form before I can accidentally tear the joint from his body.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“OLIVER!” a girl’s voice screams out, panic infusing her voice as she skids to a stop, an action quickly followed by the rest of the Travelers, some of which have already made it to the van, waiting for the door to open up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>alright, I’ve got a hostage</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>....</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I am regretting portions of my plan</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>but I can’t stop now </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>where would that leave me?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Oliver strains from under my hand, desperately trying to escape from my iron grip to no avail. My other hand comes up, a second attempt at a placating gesture, as I try to assume a more… welcoming expression. The Travelers look back at me, terror warring with hope, as the guy at the back of the pack standing right next to the camper van’s door, the one who had tried to talk earlier, is looking intently at… me? No, he’s looking at Oliver.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Trickster</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before I can do anything, maybe beckon them over, make it clear that I’m not about to eat Oliver, something else like that,  a gunshot goes off, causing everyone present to flinch and look over at the source, which turns out to be the snoring man, the presumptive owner of the motel we’re currently having our standoff in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS GOING ON OUT HERE!?!?”  he yells, waving a shotgun wildly around as he hobbles out from his dingy office, squinting at the tableau laid in front of him. “NO FIGHTS ON MY-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before the old man can truly begin his no-doubt terrifying rant, Oliver vanishes from under my fingers, instantaneously replaced with a much shorter man, my hand missing the weathered jean-jacket covered shoulder by a solid six inches. The motel owner, handily identified as Earl by his worn name-tag, quickly acclimates to his new position and continues shouting at me, if a bit louder than before while jabbing his shotgun accusingly at my chest. In the background, I see the Travelers continue their hasty retreat, casting fearful glances back at us.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“-PROP... HEY! WHAT DO YOU THI-  <em>oh shiiiiiit!”</em> he suddenly hisses as he meets my slitted eyes, and, taking a quick breath, places the barrel of the shotgun to my stomach and pulls the trigger.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The gunshot cracks through the parking lot.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>damn</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>brave guy</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I look down at Earl and cock an eyebrow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He looks up at me, sweat glistening on his brow as he drops the gun from abruptly nerveless fingers, pellets tumbling from the smoking muzzle to scatter across the asphalt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Heh....had to, uh, to try, y’know....” he stammers out, hands outstretched as if to say “what can you do?”.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>get out of here, man</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I toss a thumb to the side, indicating for him to go. He gladly takes it, running off down the road like an olympic sprinter and not the elderly man he appears to be. I let out a slow, silent sigh before deciding to look on the bright side.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>didn’t flinch</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>nice</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“STOP GAWKING,CODY! GET GOING!” Trickster bellows, grabbing the now-named Cody by his arm and roughly yanking him towards the van.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>ah yes.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>parahuman bullshit</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>how could I forget</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Right on cue, the door pops open, a woman sitting in a wheelchair quickly rolling backward to avoid the sudden rush of people, and another woman (Sundancer?) quickly shoves Luke and Cody inside. Before they follow, Trickster puts his hand on Sundancer’s shoulder and tells her… something. Something she doesn't like as evidenced by her shrugging his hand off the moment he finishes. She’s obviously torn, but upon locking eyes with me, her resolve visibly firms.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“God! Fine!” she yells, glaring accusingly at me before casting out her hands, palms facing the sky as she visibly focuses. “But we’ve got to go! Now! Before it gets too hot.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wh- ah. </em>
  <em>
    <strong>Sun</strong>
  </em>
  <em>dancer</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I take an instinctive step backward.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And a star ignites before my eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>holy christ that's bright</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is a hellish rush of superheated air as the glare of a literal sun mere feet away from my face obliterates any hope I had for seeing anything other than the light. Beneath my feet I feel the asphalt melt into a thick, black soup, the boiling liquid sinking into the spaces between my toes. I can do nothing but walk forward, arm thrown in front of my face to block but a fraction of the all-consuming light.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I get closer to the origin, the star itself, hearing less and less of the outside world, everything being overpowered by the deafening roar of tortured air and steaming of the boiling parking lot. The sun was growing, the heat, inasmuch I could feel it, getting more intense, and the light growing brighter and brighter. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>get out of the sun or you’ll lose them!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I slowly lower myself to the ground in a sprinter’s crouch. I tense my legs, pick a direction and lunge, exiting the sun’s corona in style by launching myself directly into a ditch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That is currently on fire and filling with molten tar.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>eh</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>at least I can see</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Levering myself out from the still burning ditch, I look around, noticing 1) the Travelers tearing down the road in their camper-van and 2) the slagged and still burning wreck of my car.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wa- MY CAR!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm hit with an odd sense of melancholy. It wasn’t even my car, having stolen it from a dealership while running from the law, but still, it was one of the very few things I actually had here. Something concrete and real.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>and now it’s gone.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>....</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Digging my fingers into the hard-baked earth, I push myself forth from the ditch and onto the road, getting to my feet and starting to run after the camper-van, slowly at first, but I quickly remember how, exactly, to run as the Siberian..</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>It was like- pushing like this- ah, yep that's it</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before long, I’m loping down the road at a breakneck pace, trees flashing past me as I close in on the unwieldy camper-van. Behind me, the second sun winks out, the oppressive light beating down upon my back vanishing like it was never there. Alert for any sign of it re-emerging, I near the back of the van, the ladder sticking out providing an intriguing opportunity for pursuit. And, judging by the lack of any juking or sudden right turns, they haven’t noticed I’m back here yet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>good</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>but can I grab the ladder without tearing it clean off and subsequently alerting them to my presence?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>do I have a better idea?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>right </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I can totally make that</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lunging forward, I meet the rung of the ladder with a monochrome hand and the overriding will to make it not fall apart in my grip, and after a brief, heart-stopping moment hold onto it without tearing it from the vehicle. Success! As I pull all of my other limbs onto the ladder, I make sure that it’s not about to come apart under me through some hesitant shaking of the frame. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Alright, I’ve infiltrated the enemy’s… <em>Winnebago Adventurer?  </em>without any murder, destruction of the vehicle or alerting them to my presence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fantastic </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>what now?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Communication is the first thing I should shoot for, maybe apologize for grabbing… Oliver, yeah Oliver, have Ballistic apologize for shooting a bullet into my eye and have a nice chat about what exactly they’re planning on doing in Mississippi of all places.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then I can grab something to eat, because it has been a very long time since I’ve had anything but solar plasma, nuclear fallout or human flesh to eat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wonder if they have a Wendy’s here?</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So it’s been a while, longer than I anticipated when I released that last chapter. Long story short, I got sick with something disconcertingly similar to coronavirus without it actually being coronavirus which really sapped any will I had to write. I’m much better now so I might actually maintain something resembling an update schedule!</p>
<p>(Don’t count on it)</p>
<p>Anyway, hope y’all enjoyed the chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Peace Was Never An Option - Leaving Russell, MS - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta’s, AviMavi and Doccer!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Vortices of air buffet me as I hang from the ladder, whirling currents of air worrying at my clothes, seeking to pull me off, even as whoever’s driving takes sudden turns at speeds that one might consider unsafe in a rally car, let alone a camper van. Despite the spirited attempts to throw me, my monochrome fingers remain tightly curled around the metal rails. Intellectually, I know the tarmac below cannot possibly hurt me, no matter how fast I’m going when I hit, having just walked through a literal sun. But the niggling fear remains—that this will be the one thing that’ll get me, that my invulnerability will fade and I will be me again, just in time to be grievously injured. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just like a dream ending </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But the consequences stick around</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another sudden turn yanks me from my brief melancholy as I have to brace myself or be thrown into a nearby pine tree. For a brief, heart-stopping moment I could swear the camper is on two wheels as it skids around the corner, before it rights itself. I faintly hear muffled screaming coming from inside the vehicle, echoing my current sentiments towards the driver.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>holy god, slow </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>down</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean, I know you’re driving like this ‘cause of me, but still-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>please don’t drift a goddamn </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>camper van</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still braced against the rails of the ladder, I turn my head back towards the town of Russell, Mississippi, a thin tendril of smoke coiling in the morning sky. Way off in the distance, I hear a police siren echo through the trees surrounding the two lane highway on both sides. My eyes trace the smoke trail down to the obscured source, staring silently towards my latest burning wreck I'm fleeing from.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>....</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>what’s the saying?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>once is happenstance, twice coincidence, thrice enemy action?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>....</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>heh</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>probably just a hazard of being the Siberian, people don’t tend to hold back around the most dangerous serial killer in the world</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>god I hope that's the reason</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>anyway</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Turning back around I study the path up to the top of the van, an entirely clean and seemingly unused ladder bolted into the back of the van. I spot a bright yellow warning sticker specifically warning me to not, under any circumstances, climb this ladder while the vehicle is in motion, thoughtfully including a visualization of a stick figure falling from the truck in lurid black and yellow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look pointedly away from the sticker and hook a jean clad leg around a durable plastic rung of the ladder, carefully hoisting myself up the ladder, conscientiously trying real hard not to tear it free and send me careening into the road. Thankfully, it works out and I successfully manage to get about halfway up before anything goes horrifically wrong. In this case, it is the gradual realization that there is another noise mingling with the rumbling of the camper-van, the rushing air and background insect buzzing. I whip my head around, gaze instantly alighting on a forest-green sedan innocently motoring along about twenty feet from my incredibly oblivious form.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ah</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>balls</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s hard to see through the windshield from my position, given the glare of the sun above and the darkened glass, but I’m close enough to make out two figures in the front, an adult and child judging by their respective sizes, both of them staring right at me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>ah shit, they’re gonna ho-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kid on the left, the shadow of pigtails semi-visible through the sun’s glare, waves to me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>fuck it, why not</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hooking an arm through the rails to ensure I don’t fall, I twist around and wave back, favoring them with a toothy smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The adult, apparently cottoning on to what exactly is happening, hits the brakes while simultaneously extending their arm to stop their kid from launching straight through the windshield. The sedan then proceeds to perform an impressive, if somewhat illegal, U-turn into the oncoming lane and accelerates down the road, taking the next turn and vanishing from view.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>huh</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>that…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>may not have been the best idea</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Latching back onto the ladder with my waving arm, I stay still for a few taut seconds, waiting for the van to try and shake me, for something to shoot through the wall and knock me from my perch, for surely they could not have missed something as blatant as a car taking an incredibly loud and illegal U-turn right behind them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a few quiet seconds, there’s an abrupt, angry bellow followed by a meaty smack which is in turn followed by a </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly</span>
  </em>
  <span> impressive amount of yelling, cursing and concerningly strident screaming. It sounds like an argument has gotten incredibly out of control.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>wha-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>are they really fighting right now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>after being chased by the Siberian?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>wow</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>guess the Simurgh really did put them on a hair-trigger after all</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>well, if they’re busy fighting, then they probably won’t be listening for someone climbing up their ladder and getting up onto their roof, will they?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>how unfortunate</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a small, sardonic smile quirking my lips, I reach for the next rung, about to start my ascent when I hear a quiet scratching noise off to my right, barely registering over the wind, road and escalating argument, which, considering my current position on the back of a camper-van easily doing fifty, is a little concerning. Whipping my head around to face whatever had made that noise, I proceed to nearly lose my grip on the ladder out of sheer shock.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>wh-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Peeking around the side of the van is a monstrous </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, a massive spider-crab-thing sporting the face of an otherwise unremarkable teenage girl contorted into a caricature of hate and fear. The second I lay eyes upon its terrifying visage, it pounces, its multitude of legs scuttling around the corner with more speed than I would have guessed was possible. A hastily outstretched swipe towards its oncoming form is easily dodged as it closes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>fuck!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Capitalizing upon my miss, it strikes, lashing out with massive scything forelegs, the all-too-human face screaming in an insectile frenzy of clicks and raw-throated static. One dagger-like forelimb slams down straight onto my exposed forearm, the razor-sharp edge instantly blunting around my inviolable flesh with a hideous crunch. The other blade is much more successful, cutting clean through one of the ladder’s side rails and, with a groan of overstressed metal, begins its inexorable slide downward.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>no!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I struggle to stay on the ladder, desperately looking for a handhold, the crab-spider decides to follow up its first attack with another, letting out another bone-chilling scream and scuttling out from the edge with a chorus of boney clicks from its long, segmented legs. It wildly swings its sword-pedipalps at me, scoring a few quick blows to my face and chest as it closes with me, causing nothing but confusion. Its true intentions are revealed as it leaps for the other rail, its chitin blades leading the way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>mo-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The strike carves right through the rail with a shriek and spray of sparks, a hideous screech of victory leaving the crab-spider’s lips as its inhuman eyes watch the ladder fall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-th-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are mere fractions of a second for me to recover before the ladder falls to the asphalt below. Instinctive terror of falling slams home into my heart as my body does its absolute best to arrest the fall, which apparently translates to forming my hands into claws and slamming both into the camper van, effortlessly tearing a gargantuan hole through the thin metal and giving me a truly fantastic advantage for staying on this god-forsaken van as I hammer the “make this solid” button inside my head to make sure it’ll actually hold me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-erFUCK</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An unintended side effect of the whole jagged tear in the van solution—I can now hear the inside a lot better and can actually see figures moving around inside if I choose to look. Unfortunately, this translates to those inside (Travelers) being able to see me (serial killer attempting to enter their space). This newfound view into the vehicle is quickly overridden with another, more pressing problem when the crab-spider attempts to body slam me from my precarious perch, its many, many limbs anchoring to the thin sheet metal covering the van and pushing, striking ineffectually at my handholds as it screams bloody murder far too close to my face, the sudden closeness clarifying any misconceptions I had held about the true nature of this abomination. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>jesus titty-fucking </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>christ</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>! </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is so much worse up close, as here I can see that the girl’s face is quite literally skin-deep, used as nothing more than a flesh mask for the insectile face sitting beneath, its mandibles working wildly as it continues to scream, rancid spittle spattering my horrified face as it continues to try its level best to shove me off the back of the camper van. It fails to move me at all; both of my hands are firmly wedged inside of the van and, by god, I was not going to let go. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As it became increasingly clear that I was not going to be hurt, let alone moved, by its attempts, it immediately took a different tack, quickly stabbing down at my hands and the surrounding metal, fervently trying to find a way to dislodge me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>enough of this shit</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wrenching a hand from its prison, I swing a monochrome arm upward, the arc neatly intersecting with the bug’s midsection, carving a gargantuan chasm through its exoskeleton. The gristly snapping of pulverised chitin abruptly cuts off its constant scream as whatever excuse for blood this thing possesses rapidly exits its newly gained mortal wound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The crab-spider-thing gives one last, pathetically small wheeze before it loses its grip on the van, falling backward and dissolving into a cloud of gray, lifeless dust before it can hit the ground. The dust instantly disperses, billowing outward and vanishing as the van continues inexorably onward. From inside the camper van, there is a muted scream, as if someone had just abruptly woken from a nightmare and had to choke off their exclamation for fear that the monster would still be there to hear it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>....</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>damn</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>was that Genesis?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>pictured something less...</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>viscerally horrifying from her</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>should teach me not to make assumptions I suppose</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>enough pussyfooting around</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>me and the Travelers are going to have a little discussion, clear some pertinent things up and they are going to stop trying to </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>kill me</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but first</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silently grunting, I lever myself up and spear both of my legs through the much abused back of the van, effectively making an hole in what looks like a sparsely used bedroom, scattering pink fiberglass onto the shag carpet as I come through the wall. Crouched on the ground, I eye the room quickly, noticing the distinct lack of anyone in here as well as a closed door, presumably leading to the rest of the van. The bed is empty, the covers lying on the floor, someone obviously having gotten up with some speed and not stopped to put them back on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quickly striding across the room, I raise and set my shoulder, preparing to break through the flimsy, wooden door separating me from the Travelers when I spot something out of the corner of my eye, a brief flash of red, white and black moving off to my side. My heart, still stoutly non-existent, jumps into overdrive, as my hands curl into claws, and my thighs flex in preparation for a lunge as I whirl to face-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Me</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>god I look horrible</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I do, my unfamiliar face twisted into a fearsome grimace that smoothes over as soon as I become aware of it, my shark-like teeth hidden quickly behind embarrassed lips, slitted eyes avoid their twins, ashamed of the frustrated anger that had been so very clear even in that brief glimpse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>....</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>the fuck am I doing?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>they’re trying to kill me because I am in the body of the most feared serial killer in the world and currently chasing them down.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>they genuinely believe they’re about to be killed and eaten.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>by me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>....</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>christ</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sit down heavily on the bed, absentmindedly making sure it doesn't collapse under my weight as I stare into the mirror, tracing the lines of my body as I try to see what those teenagers cowering in the other room see.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am not who I was</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>before I was just some random college student</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t have to worry about scaring anyone</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but now-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>now i’m the Siberian</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>with all that that entails</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I need to adjust</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>need to stop scaring people</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>need to stop-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I need to do something, something indisputably good</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>something that makes people stop looking at me like </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>her</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>what’s something that, by anyone’s standards in this fucked up reality, is good?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I want some degree of acceptance from the general public and a retraction of the kill order then...</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going to have to kill an endbringer</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s the only act big enough to reverse the sheer amount of bad karma the Siberian’s been accumulating over ten years of serial killing</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>van’s still moving</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>meaning they’re still here</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m still going to have to deal with them.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Casting a quick glance around the room, I spot a truly minuscule desk, the faux wood surface crammed with an assortment of papers and a small, closed laptop. A small smile creeps onto my face, the prospect of the internet proving some small balm to my melancholy. I can find things out, things I don’t know from reading </span>
  <em>
    <span>Worm,</span>
  </em>
  <span> things that were never written about and things that are common knowledge on Bet. I need to learn these things, get the state of the world so I can find my place in it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but not now</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>now I need to make things…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My eyes fix on the door, and, firming my will,  I stand.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>New chapter! </p><p>A bit of self-reflection (literally) as he finally realizes that, hey maybe chasing a bunch of teenagers wasn’t the best avenue for peaceful diplomacy. Who could have guessed?</p><p>I hope y’all like it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. No Room For Faithless Imitations - Outskirts of Russell, MS - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my betas, AviMavi and Doccer!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wind blusters through the jagged hole in the back of the van, ruffling the loose papers scattered throughout the room, as the dull, white-noise of the road drowns out all noise but itself. Running one hand over my scalp, I think the present situation over as I slowly get to my feet, looking anxiously at the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>alright</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>so</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Seven teenagers being chased by a serial killer. A classic situation, yes, but one I would rather not have come to the classical conclusion of seven dead teenagers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In order for that to happen, I need to make sure they know that I’m not here to kill them, that I’m not here to eat them, and that I’m not here to give them over to Bonesaw so they can stop trying to kill me and I don’t have to worry about someone getting hurt because of me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>well…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I mean, if it worked last time....</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Scanning the room, I quickly spot my quarry, a pen set down upon a loose sheaf of papers spread over the cramped desk crammed into the corner of this oppressively bland room. A few quick steps over to the desk and I'm contemplating what exactly to write, what combination of words would best illustrate my point and convince them of my true intentions, or at the very least stop them from doing something even more ill-advised than what has already happened.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>short and simple</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>easy to understand</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>not implying murder...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>how about...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Hello</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>I am not the Siberian</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>I’m not going to hurt you</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>I just want to talk</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Please</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>yeah that works</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Somewhat satisfied with my meager message, I walk back over to the door, apprehension quietly pooling in my gut. One would think that being transplanted into an invulnerable body would remove the source of social anxiety, but apparently not. In any case, the disquiet rises as I get nearer to the door. The voices beyond become louder, whatever was happening in the other room reaching a critical mass, as brief snippets of panicked voices resolve themselves into understandable words.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“NOELLE PL-” a voice I abruptly recognize as Krouse screams before being abruptly cut off mid-syllable with a meaty squelch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The room beyond descends into auditory anarchy, the sound of cursing, begging and just plain yelling piercing clean through the thin, plastic door. My eyes widen in surprise and horror.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>did she-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“HOLD ON!” an unfamiliar male voice yells at the top of his lungs, desperation clearly showing as his voice cracks from the volume of his cry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wha-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>I</em> have a bare second to brace, just enough of a warning to dig my fingers deep into the wall, set my feet and hope to god I don’t accidentally crush someone. The driver—whoever he is—slams on the brakes, slowing the multi-ton vehicle down to a screeching stop. Everything sways, the metal structure of the van creaking under the stress as every single loose object in the room falls to the floor. Luckily, I don’t move, the multiple points of contact evidently being enough to keep me from flying forward.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A beat of silence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then a cacophony of screams and hoarse yells fills the air, and, underlying it all, a deep, inhuman bellow of animalistic rage. An instinctive step takes me back into the bedroom proper as the screams get closer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>shit</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>if that's Noelle then-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>shit!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastily tearing my fingers from the wall, I take the final step towards the door and, momentarily steeling myself, yank it open, revealing the room beyond.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...yep</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>that's Noelle</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s smaller than I thought, not quite the titan of roiling flesh described in text, but still a terror to behold, her head brushing against the low ceiling there in the cramped, narrow hallway connecting these two rooms.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The woman—<em>Noelle</em>—stares back at me with an expression of dread. From waist up she’s unremarkable, a blandly attractive, brown-haired woman, someone I wouldn't look twice at if I passed her in the street, but below her waist she is entirely monstrous. Hanging from what was once her pelvis is a half-skinned skull, a disquieting mix between horse and wolf, small, beady eyes filled to the brim with volcanic anger directed squarely at me, fixed into the bare sockets sitting above a slavering maw, sharp fangs haphazardly mixed in with flat molars. Other eyes lay scattered across her lower half, some socketed in malformed skulls, some simply placed there by some fleeting whim.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Behind the head, I can see the flesh of her legs warped outward under the malign instinct of her power. The skin is patchwork, all too human tones side by side with crocodilian armour, neon accented feathers and raw muscle fibers. The visible muscle flexes, vestigial and complete limbs alike spasming underneath her twitching form. The limbs are as varied as the skin, horse-like hooves twitching next to insectile scythes and tiger paws. However, despite the monstrousness of her lower-half, there is still a sense of incompleteness, the majority of her manifold limbs starved and spasming, her human body an anorexically thin counterweight to the bloated weight of the monster below.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She shifts on her multitude of legs, a horrifying parody of a centaur, eyeing me with a mixture of panic and fear, an expression at odds with the sheer animalistic rage burning in the lupine skull's own eyes. I have no doubt, if it could, it would tear itself from her body and try its very best to eat me whole.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>ah</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>alright</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>maybe she’s still able to be reasoned with?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Moving slowly in hopes not to startle her, I hold up the message, silently hoping she is not too far gone. Her eyes, the original, human ones still sitting in her head, scan the paper then shoot up to stare into mine. For a second, it almost seems like this will work, that this entire clusterfuck can be resolved peacefully.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then she coughs, or rather, the monstrous wolf/horse head coughs, a rippling undulation propagating through the entire monstrous mass as it spits a naked body to the shag carpet below, staining it with the truly vile fluids coating its form.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>oh no</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It thrashes wildly upon contact with the open air, a sudden convulsion before it lurches unsteadily to its feet. The sign drops to the ground, slipping through abruptly slack fingers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>please no</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It- He looks at me, a warped mirror of Krouse’s face staring back, broken teeth twisted in a rictus grin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>oh god, this is exactly what I was trying to stop</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s tall, far taller than Krouse and so incredibly pale that I can see every one of his blood vessels straining against too-tight skin. A misshapen scarecrow of a man, he cackles maniacally, swinging one skeletal arm towards my form, despite our distance making the gesture harmless.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With a subdued pop, the back half of the camper-van vanishes along with a sizable portion of road, a gaping, square absence where the asphalt used to be barely registering as I fall to the ground, somehow managing to land on my feet despite my surprise at my footing disappearing from underneath me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>w-what?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Noelle, now looming far above my form, shudders grotesquely, the half-skinned skull letting out a predatory roar of triumph, before looking down with the expression of mounting anger writ large upon human and monstrous face alike.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<strong>YOU WonT huRt HIm!</strong>” she bellows, the sheer volume piercing through my momentary confusion like a hot knife through butter, the rumbling bass of her monstrous half melding with the human woman’s voice coming from her own mouth.”<strong>I- i WOn’T LEt YoU!</strong>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her bulk shifts, immense coils of muscle tensing in preparation as she jabs a singular finger down towards me.“<strong>YoU! KIll HEr!” </strong>she screams.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Krouse’s clone looks at me with malevolent glee shining in his eyes. Devoid of any skin to cover them, exposed tendons contract, twitching long, skeletal fingers, as he nods jerkily, once, twice, thrice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Following her final command, she jumps, titanic muscles explosively releasing their stored energy even as the remainder of the camper-van groans in protest at the force. She lands heavily at the other end of the absence and, turning the momentum into what could generously be called a gallop, running straight into the treeline, shouldering the undergrowth aside in a single explosive shove and vanishing from sight.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wh- if she gets to-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With a smug grin, the clone waves his arm once more, a sense of showman’s flair extruding even from this horrible doppelganger. I flinch, dropping my stance and preparing to drop once more only to be surprised when nothing happens. Apparently, the doppelganger shares my sense of shock as he drops his arm with a snarl and takes a step forward, both hands curling into claws as he does.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>alright, alright evil clone what do I do</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re going to die here!” he howls, bloody spittle erupting from his lips. “Or my name isn’t Francis <strong>Fucking </strong>Krouse!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>i’ve got to s-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My train of thought is thoroughly derailed by the cacophony that erupts when the back half of the camper-van impacts the road behind me with a crash of metal, plastic and shag carpet being crushed under its own momentum. Seconds later, almost as an afterthought, a three inch thick sheet of asphalt smacks into the crumpled remains and utterly obliterates it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>oh fuck</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Capitalizing upon my momentary distraction, the doppelganger pounces. “‘Fucker!” he screams roughly, sharp-edged fingers leading as he closes, “I’ll carve you apart, you frigid bi-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I meet his brazen leap with a close-fisted punch, the blow catching him in the sternum and practically tearing him in two as it continues through the rest of his torso without resistance. His body slams into the ground a pile of meat, an oil-slick of blood pouring forth from his gaping hole in his chest onto the perfectly flat asphalt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“-tch,” the doppelganger manages to choke out, before his body realizes that, why yes, his lungs <em>have </em>been destroyed and proceeds to expire on the spot. His heart takes a minute to catch on, so it continues to pump  the body's remaining life-blood through the ragged wound. I freeze in silent horror, watching the blood drip from my outstretched fist, the scarlet liquid not even trying to stick to my monochrome skin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fuckfuckfuck not again</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I drop to my knees, eyes fixed upon the ma- the <strong>clone’s </strong>face, focused on the expression of feral anger still present. Focus on the inhumanity, the starvation thinness of his limbs, the parchment white skin wrapped far, far too tight around elongated bones.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>hey hey its just a clone, just a clone</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>just a clone</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>christ</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With a rush, the sounds of the world reasserts itself. The tinkle of glass bouncing off the pile of twisted metal to my back, faint plops of oil and gas dripping onto asphalt and panicked yelling in the remaining half of the van to my front and…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Faint screaming off in the distance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>the direction Noelle just went.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>no</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I stagger to my feet, angling my head towards the scream, dreading another.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Another scream, louder, coming from inside the van.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>what?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The remaining Travelers haven't left the confines of the bisected van, judging from the argument raging inside. Th- the very enthusiastic argument with percussive thumping and angry, distorted bello- ok there's a clone trying to kill the Travelers in there.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shooting my eyes over to the van, I notice something… odd. The entire thing is flickering subtly, steadily pulsing like a metronome as it sits there. The screaming floating through the gaping wound in the van is different than it was, staccato, as if the same sound was being repeated in perfect time with the pulsing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>a Grey Boy loop?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>here?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hastily clambering over the sharp-edged border between air and vehicle, I enter the van to see a naked, bloody-raw man with his broad, over-muscled back facing me trying his level best to choke out his double while the rest of the Travelers try to move, some attempting to assist the man underneath the clone, others trying to escape through the front door, All to no avail, as their running forms forced back to their earlier positions again and again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I take three long strides, closing the distance to the clone, the pulsing waves of altered time bouncing from my form like ripples from a rock. The Travelers, save one, see me coming, their eyes going wide and beginning to take a step back, once, twice and I’m upon him, a monochrome hand fastened around his shoulder as I wrench him backward, eliciting an inhuman scream of agony as his collarbone and shoulder alike shatter under the force.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With the clone thrown to the ground, the man—Cody—looks back up at me, bloodshot eyes thankful even as he gasps painfully, his hand moving to his throat where vivid purple bruises are beginning to form.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Than-” he wheezes out, before everything stutters in place “Than-” he wheezes again, inflection unchanged. I whirl around to see the clone looking back at me, that same look of utter malevolence plain even on his distorted, jaw-less face as he looms above the girl laying on the couch, a purloined kitchen knife clutched in his one working hand, the other arm a purple-black ruin of misshapen flesh. She screams, skinny arms flying up to protect herself before being reverted to their previous position by her sides. She screams again. He stabs downward, murderous glee shining in his eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>no!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s no time to think. I lunge, both arms reaching towards him, desperately trying to reach the clone before he can complete his strike, his raw and inflamed skin providing a practically glowing target for me to hit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And hit I do, my hasty tackle taking him right below the ribs, tearing the man into two messy halves, liters of tacky blood exploding outward, thoroughly ruining the carpet, the walls and the couch that the girl is currently laying on. The top half smacks heavily into the bathroom door before falling to the ground with a thump, his lower half, bereft of a brain to tell it what to do, slumps forlornly to the ground next to the couch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>holy fucking christ</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I saw his fucking stomach explode and his spine-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>It just-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I-I fuck, later, check on her first</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Picking myself up from now soggy carpet, I walk over to the girl’s prone body, trying to ignore the spasmodically twitching legs and the clone, despite completely lacking a lower jaw, repeatedly grunts, attempting to say something even as his life's-blood deserts him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The girl—Genesis—is splattered with blood, ratty jeans and a worn t-shirt almost certainly lost causes beneath all the red. It is not enough to hide the knife however, the blade lodged deep in her chest, both hands frantically clutching the blade.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>ohnonono</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Another pulse, and the knife stays where it is, Genesis wheezes, a shocked exhalation full of pain, eyes going wide as her hands shoot up to the knife. Another pulse. The clone is still alive, his power still firing, but he is as good as dead, and when he does, she will start to die.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fuckfuckfuck</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>what do I do?. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>what <strong>can </strong>I do?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The knife isn’t moving, she’s already been stabbed or I could deflect if before it gets in. Could take it out but the wound would stay, without the blade keeping the blood in. She's been stabbed in the… not in the heart, I think, wrong side for it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>still a lung injury, still fatal</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I look around the trashed living-room of the van, evidence of a fight present in the dents, the blood and the vomit coating the once cozy space. The remaining Travelers are still present, albeit looping in their own private prisons. Oliver’s at the front, clearly heading for the door, wide, fearful eyes staring at me as he goes. Luke’s standing by the tiny sink, hand reaching towards the knife block as he keeps his eyes on me. Mars looks lost and scared, eyes flitting from me, to the body in the corner, to Genesis on the couch, again and again. Cody’s still stuck thanking me on the floor and-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Cody!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>he can revert her</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>right?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Another look at the clone tells me he is not long for the world, bloody spittle bubbling up from his exposed throat as his eyes go blank and still, his breathing gone so shallow it might as well not have been breathing at all. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>quick!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Two quick steps and i’m at Cody’s side, his eyes fixing on mine with a trace of confusion percolating. A hand on his shoulder, somewhat lighter than the one I had put on his clone, and he is invulnerable, allowing me to carefully pull him to his feet.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thanks for the help.” he wheezes, blearily looking up at me. I snap my fingers in front of his face, a loud crack to get his attention before pointing at Genesis. His face goes pale, weakly trying to shake my grip.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What- what did you-” I snap my fingers again, pointing at his doppelganger’s slumped body.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh,” he says, breathlessly, “oh shit.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A rattling exhale, a final twitch and the clone finally dies.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After existing in the same second for the last minute, it is profoundly weird to rejoin the timestream and see the still and jerky cabin explode into continuous motion as the Travelers finish the movement they had started the minute before. And while it might be interesting to see how they react, Cody needs to help Genesis, <em>now.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pulling him over, I point insistently down at her gasping form. Cody staggers, obviously lightheaded, and blinks uncomprehendingly for a second before Genesis, clearly choking down blood, raises a shaking arm towards Cody.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“H-help me,” she pleads, desperation evident in her fading voice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...remove the knife, can’t do it with it in her,” he rasps, his prior confusion vanishing like morning dew as he stares down at his wounded friend.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I can do that</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Taking hold of the knife, I quickly pull it from her chest with a grotesque, meaty pop, Genesis letting out a pained gasp as I do. Cody looks down at her and, after a second of apparent concentration, reality is reversed. She reverts mid-scream, her arms flying to protect her face and recoiling from the now absent blow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beneath her flailing arms, the shirt is unmarred, save scattered splatters of blood from the Cody clone’s messy demise. No sucking chest wound, no struggling to breathe through a pierced lung, nothing. I sag in relief, a pleased smile creeping onto my face despite everything else.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>oh thank god</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I-I thought she was-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, so...”  Luke carefully says from his position over by the knife block, “the <strong>fuck </strong>was that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I mean,” he continues, voice slowly rising in volume as he gets more into it. “Noelle and Krouse are gone, Jess nearly fucking <strong>died</strong>, the entire back end of the fucking van’s gone and to top it all off, the <strong>fucking </strong>Siberian is standing in the middle of our godforsaken living room!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He looks stricken when the last word of his impromptu diatribe escapes his mouth, fearfully eyeing me as if I’m about to kill him for the insult, which is fair considering the long, incredibly bloody history of the Siberian.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...no offense,” he tacks on awkwardly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I shrug.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fair</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cody speaks up, his voice still quiet and pained but determined. “Siberian saved me, Jess too,  from Noelle’s fucking clone,” he coughs wetly. “It tried to kill me, stuck the rest of you in stasis while it”—Cody gestures meaningfully to the darkening bruises ringing his throat—”choked me out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“She saved me,” he finishes, voice raw as he nods at me. “Not sure why.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My skin prickles under the Traveler’s collective gaze.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No one voices the question but I can tell they’re all thinking it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>New chapter time!</p>
<p>I got a bolt of inspiration from the blue last night and proceeded to write my longest chapter yet! Noelle’s an interesting character, and this will not be the last we see of her (obviously). </p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Let Someone Else Have Your Way - Lauderdale County, MS - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my betas, AviMavi, Doccer, and the folks from the Cauldron discord!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The interior of the camper-van was once cozy, if in a tastefully bland way, but has recently been thoroughly tainted by the various fluids once held within the man lying bisected upon the floor. The clone, twisted features still vaguely recognizable as the man they were copied from, slumps heavily against the fridge, arcs of arterial spray cutting vivid lines down the white surface. His eyes, clouded with the agony of death, stare sightlessly into the cabin as a silent standoff takes place, one side mute out of fear and confusion, the other physically unable to make a sound.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dimly glowing eyes slowly pan to each of the Travelers loosely surrounding me, trying my absolute best not to move too fast and spook them. Ballistic, now holding a knife in a forcibly casual way, stands by the tiny plastic countertop, Sund—<em>fuck it, I know their names, I’m calling them by their names</em>—Mars is half-crouched by the door, long fingers periodically flexing as she watches me with wide eyes constantly flicking between me and her friends. Oliver is behind her, likewise watching me from over her shoulder, averting his eyes when mine flick over. Genesi—<em>shit what's her name</em>—<strong>Jess</strong> and Cody are right beside me, one recovering from an attempted strangulation, one trying to shake off her sudden brush with death, both watching warily.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then there's me, standing in the middle, trying very hard to look non-violent.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Breaking the stillness permeating the cabin, Cody straightens from his pained stoop and, massaging the purpling bruises ringing his throat, looks down on me, as his greater height suddenly becomes apparent in our close quarters. A flash of baseless annoyance pulses through my chest—<em>I'm used to being the tallest in any room I enter</em>—quickly smothered under the reality of the situation. It strikes me then how much like me he looks, or at least how I was. Tall and broad, more through genetics than any actual work. He keeps his hair cropped short, whereas I kept mine long and frizzy. The face is different at least; he’s no doppelganger, just a passing resemblance to the man I once was.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It makes me… homesick, in a very weird, hard to quantify way.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cody tries to clear his throat, a noise that quickly morphs into a painful cough. The rest of the Travelers look at him in varying degrees of concern but none make any move save Jess, who awkwardly pats him on the back from her position on the couch. Wetting his lips, he croaks a single word.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Why?</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I arch an eyebrow. Why what? Why did I help him out? Why haven’t I killed them? Why am I wearing pants? Why are y-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Why ar-</span>” He coughs again before continuing. “<span>Why are you here? Gonna recruit us? Eat us whole? Is Bonesaw hiding behind you or something?</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>ah</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>at least I can answer that</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I shake my head, my arms crossing to form a somewhat exaggerated X while I mouth <strong>NO </strong>as clearly as I can through a mouth full of unfamiliar incisors.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cody squints at me, one hand idly massaging his throat. The rest of the Travelers follow his lead, their eyes avoiding mine but watching my every move.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Then why are you <strong>here</strong>?</span>” he repeats, lips thinning into a tense line as he puts as much emphasis as he can into the last word before he dissolves into hacking coughs. Half shielded by Cody’s considerable bulk, Jess—<em>god that sounds way too familiar</em>—pushes her body into a sitting position, keeping me in sight as she moves.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>how the hell do I mime ou-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wait</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I still have that sign, right?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Holding up a finger in the universal sign for <em>wait just a minute please</em>, I pat down my pockets, failing to find the piece of paper I had so unsuccessfully shown Noelle a few scant minutes ago, but instead feel a smooth chunk of something hard sitting in my jean pocket. Brow furrowed, I gingerly take it out, mindful of my audience as I do, retrieving a forlorn lump of melted plastic and metal from its denim confines. I blink confusedly, before cottoning on to what exactly I have in my hand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My car keys, cheap plastic, delicate electronics and steel melting and merging together under the incredible heat of the star I had just walked through. It glints silver in the diffuse sunlight flowing in the windshield, and stinks like a burning tire fire.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...huh</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wordlessly, I drop it to the floor and look back up at my watchers, their expressions showing a tiny bit more confusion than before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Belatedly, a memory drifts through my mind’s eye, an image of a piece of printer paper gracefully floating to the floor and vanishing with the rest of the bedroom to be vigorously squished by a few hundred pounds of asphalt falling at terminal velocity.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>....</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>balls</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I can’t mime everything I need to say to them, but...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Grimacing, I haphazardly mime writing, before placing a hand around my throat and mouthing <strong>I can’t talk </strong>as I do so.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Realization flashes in Cody's eyes and he silently gestures over to the stout mini-fridge, against which the body is still sluggishly bleeding out onto the floor, at a small dry erase board sporting a short list of groceries and other supplies.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>ah</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I awkwardly lean over the corpse, keeping my eyes firmly away from its agony-twisted face as I pull the board from the fridge, snagging the marker as I go. As I scrub the list from the surface, I try to think what I should write first.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>could just copy the old one</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>but that doesn't answer the question of why I chased them down</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I mean- I could have just let them go, stayed in my hotel room, taken the hint when I got a sun dropped on my head but no. I chased them down despite their best efforts to lose me. I broke into their van, killed Jess’s projection, and triggered Noelle’s rampage for what? To have a chat? Look at them, they’re all fucking terrified!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>why?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>because I know who they are?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>because I wanted to stop some future disaster?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>because they might sympathize with my plight?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>....</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>or is it because they ran? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>because Ballistic shot me in the eye?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>because they wouldn’t <strong>fucking sto</strong>-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>because… they wouldn't stop and listen to me</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>because I’m frustrated and angry that they wouldn't just do what I wanted them to do, despite the fact I was chasing them down</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>for fuck’s sake, just write something, deal with the anger issues later, you titanic idiot</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>try wri-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A harsh cough disturbs the still air, shaking me from my thoughts as Cody’s intense eyes bore into my own as he wipes his mouth clean. Luke’s moved, I notice as I look up, out of the minuscule kitchen space and closer to the door. He freezes like a kid with his hand stuck in the cookie jar when he spots me looking over at him and a part of me I’m not proud of derives enjoyment from watching him squirm.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Noelle’s still out there,</span>” Cody rasps, “<span>so get a move on and decide what the fuck you’re here to do. If it's to kill us then…</span>” He pauses, something like fear flickering in his eyes for a stutter-step of a second. ”<span>...make it quick. If not, well…</span>” He swallows convulsively. ”<span>Let us go help her, let us do something.</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>right</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I’m not dragging this out any longer</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>short and sweet</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>a request for help with Noelle and maybe something afterward</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>nothing more</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pressing marker to board, I quickly scrawl my message across the cheap dry-erase board’s surface.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>....</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>oh hell, this board is a lot smaller than I thought it was</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fuck it, line by line then</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>First, I am not going to hurt you</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Flipping the board around, I watch as the Travelers, as one, read the sentence printed, look up at me and then back to the board.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You- really?” Mars says, slowly rising from her half-crouch. “You’re not here to kill us?” Behind her, Oliver stands as well, obviously wishing he could be anywhere but here but not wanting to look like a coward huddling behind someone else.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I nod.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You- you did just chase us down the highway like the fucking Terminator, right? Unless that was a mass hallucination brought on by, I don’t know, hotel mold?” Luke spits, having made it to where the others are standing by the front of the van.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I wipe the board clean and scribble out the next line. The Travelers lean in to watch me, glimmers of hope peeking through their unease.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <span>Second, I am not the Siberian</span>
  </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This garners predictably confused and baffled reactions, with everyone but Oliver trying to say the same statement at once. The statement being: Yes, you fucking are! You've got the stripes, the eyes and the invincibility. Who else could you be? As I stand there, sign held awkwardly in hand, their objections overlap and combine into a morass of crosstalk so thick I can barely tell whats being said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“-nto our room the exact goddamn second I joked about you falli-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“-killed my construct like it was nothi-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>-ore that fucking clone in half an-</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“-ame out of my sun without a scrat-”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>mighta phrased that wrong</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Waving a hand to get their attention, I point at my next, hastily scribbled line, hoping to stop the argument in its tracks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <span>The Siberian is dead, I’m controlling her body</span>
  </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...When did this happen?” Mars asks, the previous hubbub gone from the room as those present look at me more closely, noting my hair, the presence of clothes and the absence of psychotic mania shining through my eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong><span>Yesterday night. In</span> </strong>—<em>where was it</em>—<strong><span>Auburn, Alabama</span></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>“...</strong>Alright,<strong>” </strong>Mars uncertainly says, apparently not willing to follow that up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And... what happened in Montgomery?” Jess pipes up from beside Cody, shooting me a look of doubt, clearly still suspicious of me, yet not willing to call me on it outright.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>ah</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>they <strong>were </strong>watching the news</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Complicated, but not my fault</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But what ab-” Luke starts to ask before being interrupted by Cody bulling into the conversation.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey!” Cody interjects loudly, dissolving into pained coughs as he does. The room instantly quiets, all inside switching their attention from me to him as he recovers his voice, taking a deep breath before starting again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Why,</span>” he croaks. ”<span>are we talking about this, when Noelle is out there, frolicking in the goddamn woods, spitting up fucked-up clones by the busload?</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>And you,</span>” he says, pointing a finger at me. “<span>This is all your fault. If you didn’t tear across this godforsaken countryside to catch us, we wouldn't be in this situation. You say you aren't  Siberian, prove it. Help us solve the problem you created.</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Travelers still, their temporary fixation on my situation overpowered by the weight of reality. Eyes flick between me and Cody, half expecting me to do something, to strike out at him, still not entirely convinced of who I say I am.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shifting back on my feet, I look at Cody, a man I've only known from this short interaction and an even briefer appearance in <em>Worm. </em>The story paints him as a craven asshole, only in it for himself and furious at the world for denying him everything he wants so very badly. On the other hand, in my own personal experience he risked his life for Jess, and stood up to what he thought was the Siberian. What do I trust here?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>damn</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I was going to help anyway, but...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>no</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>there’s nothing else to say.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I write my decision onto the board, the squeak of the marker deafening in the gloom of the cabin. The Travelers wait with bated breath for my answer, all but Oliver in the back who’s instead angling his head, eyes staring into the middle distance, listening intently for something.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <span>You’re right, it is my fault</span>
  </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>
    <strong>I’ll help</strong>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cody grunts, attempting to hide a pleased grin behind a grimace of pain, as his fingers brush up against livid bruises as he ducks his head.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Thanks</span>,” Cody says, “<span>you won’t re-</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sirens!” Oliver practically yells, making Mars jump in surprise, having almost forgotten he was behind her. His face flushes red as the rest of the room turns to him before taking a breath and soldering ahead. “I heard sirens, and they’re getting closer!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A beat of silence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everyone arrives at the same conclusion nigh on simultaneously.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>ah shit</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Luke and Cody start throwing around orders at the same time, but Luke's panicked and entirely undamaged baritone effortlessly overpowers Cody’s pained croaking, much to his evident displeasure.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We’ve got to go, now!” Luke yells, lunging over to a semi-concealed closet and flinging it open to reveal a cluttered array of beaten and worn bags. “Grab your shit, before the cops get here!.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The van dissolves into chaos, as every member of the Travelers grabs a bag and shovels their possessions into them. Cody, once he stopped staring daggers at Luke’s unknowing back, helps Jess out, snagging her foldable wheelchair from behind the couch and his own pack which he halfheartedly shovels a few shirts into. Mars worms her way past me, trying to keep as much distance as she can as she gets by only to abruptly remember where the back half of the van went, staring into the sun-lit absence for a few long seconds before cursing under her breath, turning around and going into the tiny bathroom.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>well I don’t really have anything to grab</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>except...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For my part, I write three words onto the board and clap twice, the twin cracks abruptly attracting the attention of everyone in the van, the Travelers pausing their packing to stare at me. I raise the board and point at it to provide a little bit of emphasis. There’s a wave of uncertain laughter as they turn back to their frantic work. No one gives me an answer, but it's clear that they aren't going to challenge me over it. I do need to communicate, of course.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>I’m keeping this</strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>New chapter!</p>
<p>Writing Cody is pretty fun, because I basically just write an abrasive asshole and then remember, hey wait, he should be worse! Great fun.</p>
<p>Hope y’all enjoy!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. We’ll Cross That Bridge When We Get To It - Lauderdale County, MS - July 22nd, 2010</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks to my beta Doccer, and the folks from the Cauldron discord!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The camper-van is, to put it bluntly, fucked. The back end’s crushed beyond all recovery and the front is a charnel house that no amount of cleaning will ever save. Off in the distance, sirens wail, their source still off a way, giving us at least a few minutes before they arrive. The Travelers, frantically throwing shit into bags behind me, are looking to make the most of this meager time. I, on the other hand, have nothing to pack and am feeling somewhat left out of the action. So I leave, attracting the attention of the closest person—<em>Luke</em>—with a wave and pointing out the gaping hole in the back. He nods, face as fixed as he can make it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I hop from the truncated hallway to the perfectly square absence in the road with a muted splash and the sudden sensation of stepping in a puddle. Looking down, I see brownish liquid lapping up on my bare feet, the acrid scent of fuel making itself known, competing with the heavy smell of blood and whatever the hell newly grown clones have in their intestines. Krouse’s clone sprawls limply where it fell, scarecrow arms clutched to its gaping chest wound as vivid blood mixes with the gasoline pooling under the corpse.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I avoid its dead eyes, the cloudy orbs heavy with blame and accusation even in death, while its wound, so large it almost cut the ma-<strong>clone </strong>in half, draws my eye instead, the sickly purple of organs and incongruous white of bone painting a vivid picture.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My hand—<em>the one not holding something</em>—tenses by my sides, remembering the hideous crunch of its ribcage as-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>no</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Turning from the corpse, I take the awkward step up and out of the divot, determinedly not looking back as I do so. The board still clutched in my hand provides a handy distraction, pulling my attention to something a little less incredibly morbid. It’s a pretty small board, no more than six, seven inches across, enough for a few words if I want those words to be readable more than a few feet away. Made of cheap plastic and even cheaper wood, it’ll probably break if I poke it wrong. Same story with the markers, just as cheap, likely to dry out quick.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nevertheless, it’ll keep for the next few hours.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>all I need</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Travelers’ voices float from the hole in the van, a word or two understandable through the hubbub. They’re scared, no doubt, but I think they’ll help me out on this. From what I understand, Noelle is too important for them not to. My gaze shifts from staring into the middle distance to the remaining half of the camper-van, half-listening to the people inside as I consider their coming actions.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>but</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>they are absolutely going to betray the shit out of me the second they can </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>no getting around that</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’d rather they not betray me, of course, but I don’t really see a way around it. Unless I can somehow convince them to trust me, to follow me, to disregard all the dangers and the effective social suicide that following me would entail, they are going to try to get away from me. And I honestly can’t fault them for that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>they don’t want to die. I get it</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>but.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I just want to talk to someone, to rely on someone that isn’t terrified of my very existence and maybe that's selfish but...</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’ll play it by ear. See what happens. It’s not like they can hurt me anyway.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Blinking my thoughts away, I look over to the treeline, eyes gliding over the sizable hole blown into the forest proper, a half-broken oak tree listing to one side, the carpet of immature saplings and scrub that makes up the undergrowth all but obliterated beneath Noelle’s manifold legs. The woods are surprisingly quiet, barring the ever-present hum of southern insects, with no panicked screaming or bestial roaring of an attempted murder, no conspicuously rustling bushes revealing the hiding place of a clone bent on slaughter. Just another roadside forest, second growth a few decades old, marred by something unnatural. It’s almost peaceful.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My free hand flexes into a tight fist as my face goes stiff and stony.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>what the hell am I doing?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>In a few minutes I’m going to kill again. whether it’s a clone or not, I'm going to tear someone apart with my bare hands to fix my own fuckup. If I hadn’t just chased th- </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>why did I- </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>what could I ha-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Running an unfamiliar hand over my unfamiliar face, I try and sigh, only to fail yet again. Frustration boils up from under my ribs, the sensation all too familiar to me. Yet with familiarity comes the tools to take control.  Loosening tension-packed muscles, I roll my shoulders, focusing on the slow movement of joints and tendons. I take a deep breath in, the inhale lasting far, <em>far </em>too long, but somehow as comforting as deep breaths would be. An exhale produces none of the purloined air, but I am far calmer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I fucked up.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I should have done something else</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>something less catastrophically <strong>stupid</strong></em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>but I didn’t</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>and I now need to take responsibility</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>and fix it</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>before someone dies because of me</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Letting out a silent huff, I pan my amber eyes over to Noelle’s trail, immediately tempted to start after her, to go careening through the woods and find her myself and damn the rest of the Travelers. Prickling indecision mounts in my gut as I imagine what Noelle might be doing as I stand here, waiting for a bunch of random assholes to finish packing. She might have hit a town by now, feasting on innocent civilians, storming a fucking elementary school because I was too chickenshit to pursue the real threat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I stifle the urge to start tapping my foot, eyes swinging from the woods to the van to the road where the sirens have been getting steadily louder for the last few minutes. They really need to hurry up if th-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A nearby bush rustles loudly, the brief rasp of leaf on leaf drawing my gaze instantly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A taut few seconds pass, my legs bunching in preparation for a lunge at whatever made the noise, if it comes at me, to no avail. The forest is quiet once more, not even the quiet patter of an escaping animal. Gingerly, I lay my board on the road, hands flexing in trepidation.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I’ve got to check it out</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>If it’s a clone…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Moving quickly, I break from my half-crouch position and take a few long strides off the tarmac up to the treeline, eyes trying to break through the obscuring leaves. No other movement can be heard, but I walk through the underbrush all the same. If it's some squirrel or deer then I’ll have just startled some animal, but if it's not…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My suspicions are almost instantly proved right, as a gruesomely disfigured man explosively breaks cover, legs pounding as he sprints away from me. I’m momentarily stunned before noting the nudity and the spiraling fractals of cancerous bone extruding painfully forth from his skin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>Clone</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>too close</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>GET HIM</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the half-second it takes for me to process the influx of information and begin to move, the clone makes his move, almost tripping as he throws a distorted hand out to the side and screams at the top of his lungs, the reedy sound deadened by the summer foliage. Tracking the hand, an instinct already gained from the clone's predecessor, I dig my preceding foot deep into the soil and push, the instant burst of acceleration pushing me forwards at breakneck speed as the clone’s screech transforms into maniacal cackles. A heretofore unnoticed spot on his naked back pulses a deep, radioactive green and he is no longer alone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>wha-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The other clone, a squat, one-armed distortion of Krouse, throws out his only arm, a piercing bead of green light bleeding forth from his finger as he screams in triumph. I barely have time to realize what has just happened before the projectile impacts me just to the right of my sternum, a replica of the spot on the other clone. Despite the attack, my momentum is unaltered, invulnerable body still hurtling towards the pair of clones still in my path.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One of the clones—<em>Shorty</em>—points and laughs at me, the acidically green spot flaring to life as he does. I pour on the speed, desperate to reach him before whatever he’s trying to do happens. Raising an open hand, I line up a devastating slap, aiming to take his head clean off his body. I’m feet away when he flickers that same vivid green before vanishing without a sound.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fuck!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The other clone is still running away, though his gait is somewhat hampered by the sheer amount of bone he has outside his skin. Narrowing my eyes, I continue forward, lowering my stance and putting my all into my sprint, the leaf-covered earth below giving way beneath the sheer force. The clone manages to make it a further three steps before I’m upon him. Then his spot glows and he turns to make sure I can see his horrendously snaggletoothed grin. “Fuck you, bitch!” he screams as he dives away from my reaching claws.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>no!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Desperate, I put my all into one final lunge towards his back, and I connect, deceptively delicate fingers piercing deep into his back, shredding muscle and crunching bone. He screams again, this time in absolute, gut-wrenching agony as, presumably because I’ve just cut his spine in two. He trips forward, my reaching arms tearing him in two hypothetically connected pieces right as the mark reaches a fever pitch and disappears the corpse. There’s a truly agonized wail in the distance as I, suddenly overextended, faceplant straight into the leaves and a truly obscene amount of blood and entrails, skidding a few dozen feet to a slow stop. I blink slowly at my predicament, laying face down in the dirt, looking at an incredibly confused beetle. I let out a shaky breath, trying to shove the scream of the hopefully now dead man out of my mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>god fucking damn it</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>again!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>a-fucking-gain!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Jesus, Mary and motherfucking JOSEPH!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>and I’ve still got to kill the other gu-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <strong>no</strong>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>not a guy, not a man, not a he</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>It’s a clone</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>It’s not human</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>and it deserves to die</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Blood covered fingers sink deep into the soil as I pull myself to my feet, head on a swivel looking for Shor-—<em><strong>no </strong>nicknames</em>—it. As if responding to my thoughts, a sobbing cry echos through the trees, the tortured cadence of the voice unmistakable. I run for it, gait starting slow and unsteady but gaining speed as I get going. The clone's pain is a beacon, pulling me through the copse of trees between me and it. I spot him quickly, the sharp fractals of bone and the distinct redness of his blood contrasting so vividly with the greens and browns of the surroundings.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I stop in my tracks, eyes fixed on this soon to be corpse.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s prone, what could probably be classified as his back flat on the ground, a messy morass of bones, innards and skin settling onto the leaflitter. The overpowering odor is at once disgusting and familiar, the smell of a dying body in all its glory. Eyes full of shock look up at me, its hand raising slowly, painfully from the soil to reach up to me. His lips move meaninglessly, glottal stops and orphaned consonants spilling forth like a river, but the message is clear.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wants me to take its hand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A heavy sense of guilt spikes my heart as I dauntlessly try to shove it down. I should offer comfort, put it out of its misery, something that's not standing here uselessly. But I don’t. I stand there and watch as it bleeds out. It sneers as it dies, hand falling heavily to the ground as the life fades from its eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>It was going to trick me.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>the hand, that was a power, something designed to hurt, to take advantage of kindness</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I did the right thing</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>the other clone is around here somewhere.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>h-its got teleportation based on green lights, bit of a charge time and sticks to thi-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I look down at my front, red plaid looking more red than usual as blood sluices down the fabric, collecting by the buttons and holes in the worn fabric. The green spot the clone had shot into me is gone, not a mark to be found where it had been .</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>could be hidden, could not have stuck, could have a duration</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>got no idea, but it’s not around here to tell me</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The forest is still and silent, wildlife evidently frightened enough to either move away or start being very quiet. There's no sign of movement, no angry clones trying to avenge their fallen brother. Just silence and the almost imperceptible dripping of blood.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>fuck it.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sparing a look at the body lying on the ground I walk out of the sunlit glade, birds tentatively starting to sing again as I do. I pick my way back to the camper-van in silence, head full of thoughts but none I want to put any sort of coherence to. The treeline stops me for a quick second; I hear the murmur of voices and feel the urge not to intrude, but quickly continue onward anyway. We need to go. Now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I stride back to the van, effortlessly shoving my way through the last bit of undergrowth and pick up my board from where I had left it. The Travelers are assembled before the van, now wearing masks, a truly eclectic mix of balaclavas and halloween masks of varying quality, nothing like the professional kevlar weave that Bonfire and Verdandi had been sporting. Each one of them also has a kludged together costume, mostly motorcycle gear and bullet-proof vests, but all of them have some form of body armour. Most are hefting backpacks and duffels with the exception of Jess who’s currently being carried piggyback by Luke. She looks like she’s trying to go to sleep, if her head lolling from side to side is any indicator. They’re also all anxious, visibly so, those with visible eyes staring at my still bloody form, clearly putting two and two together.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Raising the board, I scribble a few words onto its surface and turn it to face them, limply  gesturing to the hole I just made in the greenery.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>just killed a clone</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There's a wave of grunts and monosyllabic acknowledgments, but while they all are seemingly accepting of my answer, they’re still very much on-edge. To be expected, sure, but it still stings. The teens get quiet as I write again, this time for much longer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>There's another one out there</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>short, one arm, throws green orbs </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>teleports between them. </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The group collectively stiffens, most scanning the foliage for this new threat. There’s a question in the air: “Why didn’t you kill that one too?” But nobody asks it. Maybe they can see the tiredness in my eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Instead Cody, having donned a particularly edgy skull-faced balaclava, speaks up. “<span>Hey, no offense but it would've been great if you told us about that before disappearing.</span>” He coughs wetly, before quickly recovering. ”<span>Just something to keep in mind.</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>warn you of what, a rustling bu-</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>don’t get angry at him, not now</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I flash a somewhat subdued thumbs up in his direction, not willing to make anything approaching a thing out of this. He does have a point, however disreputable the source. From what I can make out under his choice of headwear, he looks pleased, and judging by the shifting of his stance, is about to say something else only to be cut off by literally everyone else turning to look at something that isn’t him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At the end of the highway we’re all currently skulking on, a pair of flashing lights appear, rounding the blind corner a few hundred feet away and quickly approaching the wreck, the wailing sirens growing louder and louder as they come.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>ah shit</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s an awkward beat, everyone present suddenly unsure who should give the order to retreat. Everyone except Cody who, upon seeing the police approach, quickly points towards the forest and, in his scratchy, recently choked voice says: “GO!!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Travelers, as a somewhat coherent mass, with a few particularly vitriolic swears, manage to bolt off into the woods before some very unlucky cops find the incredibly bloody crime scene we’ve left behind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After a minute of legging it through the woods, following the handy trail Noelle had left, everyone who can get tired—<em>read: everyone but me</em>—staggers to a stop, panting for breath. I, on the other hand, slow my jog to a crawl, chest unmoving as ever. It’s at times like these, times where I can just enjoy the sheer physical power I hold, that I actually enjoy being the Siberian. Squishing my toes into the rich soil, I close my eyes and, for a singular second, feel at peace.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then I open my eyes, catch a few terrified glances and come hurtling back down to earth. Looking down at myself,  I see the blood still dripping from my flannel, the coarse fabric evidently better at trapping it despite it all. I remember the presumably shattered body it came from, the blur of violence and screaming terminating in a long, drawn out silence .</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I blink slowly and look away from the group, half-heartedly keeping half an ear on what they might have to say, as I take the opportunity to scan the sunlit forest, searching for movement or anything that might give away another clone lurking in the shadows.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>christ</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I look back, the group looks somewhat put together, no longer gasping for air and now finding temporary seats around the clearing, trying and failing to look like they aren't watching me closely.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Luke quickly breaks the silence; “Looks like the cops aren't following us in. Can’t say I blame them. Few bodies laying around, obvious parahuman fight, big-ass hole in the woods. Not exactly comforting.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Bit above their paygrade” agrees Mars, casting her eyes around the sun-dappled clearing as she catches her breath. “So, uh...” She flounders for a second before continuing. ”What's the plan?”.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Pretty fuckin simple if you ask me,</span>” Cody practically gasps out even as he tears his mask off to suck in more air, the brief physical exertion clearly not meshing well with his already compressed airway.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mars goes over to check on him, obviously unsure how to help, and settles on giving him some water, an offer Cody eagerly accepts.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Thanks,</span>” he croaks, handing her back the water. “<span>‘ppreciate it.</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<span>Anyway, follow the trail, calm Noelle down, get her to spit <em>Krouse </em>out. That sound simple enough?</span>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Luke, apparently disagreeing, speaks up. “What about the clones? Y’know, the murderous, constantly appearing clones that Noelle is presumably still puking up as we sit here doing fuck-all! And how the hell are we going to get Noelle to calm down? She’s never done this before. What if the fucking cow sticking out of her stomach overtook her body and she’s never coming back! SHE FUCKING ATE KROUSE WHOLE! IN FRONT OF US! IS HE EVEN ALIVE? WHO KNOWS?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Luke pants after finishing his impromptu rant, the surrounding teenagers clearly too awkward to break the sudden gaping silence. He takes a quick swig of water from his canteen before continuing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“W—fuck that’s good—We need to make sure Krouse’s clones don’t gank us from behind, ‘cause judging by the massive hole that other one made, they can absolutely kill us all at once.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Krouse could probably do the same on his own but we haven't seen- shit, BEHIND YOU,” he yells, quickly digging his hand into a drawstring pouch at his waist as he points over at Oliver.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I spin towards him to see a flash of technicolor scales across the leaf-litter as something very long and very bright strikes lightning quick at Oliver's exposed calf. Thankfully, it never hits, the creature—a big-ass <em>snake</em>—snapping back to its past self as soon as Cody lays eyes upon it. It—looking as confused as a snake possibly can—hisses maliciously and, with more than a little pique, strikes again at a scrambling Oliver.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This does not save it from Luke’s power, a singular ball bearing cracking through the air to obliterate its head and a solid foot of neck, punching a sizable crater into the forest floor. The body thrashes wildly, improbable vibrant scales rippling as it rides out its final convulsions.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>christ</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Luke, thanks. That… that was really close,” Oliver says, voice more than a little shaky.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey man, it’s no problem at all. We’ve got to stick together you know?” Luke says, clapping Oliver on the shoulder, the support visibly calming the other teen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>hm</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I walk over to the snake, tactically ignoring the cascade of flinches as I get closer to the group at large. Squatting over the remains, I gingerly poke it with an outstretched finger, examining it closely. It looks like a regular snake, albeit one far larger than anything I've seen in these kinds of woods. It's got a few feet on the biggest cottonmouth I’ve ever seen and that was already a hefty snake. Scales look alright but without the head…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The group’s gone abruptly quiet and I quickly look up to see them all staring at me. Refreshingly, there's not as much fear as there is confusion, which I still find to be rather insulting.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I squint back at them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>what, I can’t poke the snake?</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I stand, dusting my hand off on my jeans as I do, scribbling a few words onto my handy-dandy dry-erase board.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>snake clone? </strong>I write, pointing down to the still weakly twitching body.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There's a long silence, the group’s body language suddenly guarded as they look to each other warily. After a few seconds, Luke metaphorically steps up to the plate once more.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah. Noelle’s power is kinda fucked up. We’re, uh, not really sure why, but yeah, her power is to make evil, fucked-up clones that hate everything, especially what their originals love. Which includes snakes.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>huh</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>nice to have that confirmed</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Travelers are still not continuing, not onwards nor with their conversation. They just keep looking at me, apprehension writ large even through their obscured faces. Are they expecting an answer? Well...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>yes, I noticed the clones</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They continue looking at me, almost expecting me to attack or run or something. I tilt my head to one side, the nigh-universal signal of confusion. This time Mars — somewhat of a surprise owing to her seeming shyness — speaks up, her face obscured by a balaclava embroidered with a depiction of a golden sun.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you… know about Noelle?” she asks carefully, body language clearly displaying her regret at speaking up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>what?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s just— well—” Whatever she’s about  to say is cut short by Cody, who walks up behind her and puts a gloved hand on her shoulder. They share a long look and he shakes his head curtly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not the time,” Cody says, his voice low and pained.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>uh</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>feel like I’m missing something important here</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>did I know about Noelle?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>yeah, of course I did, she spat a clone out at my feet! </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Looking at the two of them reveals nothing, both having broken away and clearly preparing for the next leg of our journey. Mars apparently being deeply entranced by her backpack straps and Cody muttering conspiratorially to Luke, their whispered conversation too low for me to parse.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>did I just fail a fucking speech check.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At a momentary loss for words, I slump down underneath a particularly study looking pine, carefully leaning back against it and relaxing as best as I am able. In the midst of my confusion, Jess, apparently having finally fallen asleep despite the screaming, jostling and assorted other stressors, creates her projection, a veritable wall of fog billowing from her comatose body and wrapping around itself, tighter and tighter until it forms the barebones structure of some bipedal beast. I look around, but the Travelers seem entirely unconcerned — all but Cody, who’s currently looking at me with… some kind of expression entirely obscured by his balaclava— are doing something else. Mentally shrugging, I turn back to watch Jess turn into Genesis, creating an entirely new body out of wholecloth in a span of minutes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s a tall fucker, some seven, eight foot tall, absolutely jacked monstrosity with void black muscles coiling around marble white bones wrapped in sallow, bluish skin. The face is barely a face, features all but nonexistent save for the eyes and mouth. Black orbs sit above a jaggedly toothed, black tongue mouth. It’s nude, but without genitals, standing on muscled digitigrade legs. As the final centerpiece, massive, black goat-like horns spiral forth from her head. As they grow to their final extension, she stamps once, the impact turning everyone's gaze to Genesis's new form. She immediately strikes a pose, muscles bulging as she does.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>uh</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There's a scattering of claps from the Travelers. Oliver, with the loudest proclamation I’ve literally ever heard from him, says, “Nightcrawler! Good choice! I love the horns!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Genesis gives him a thumbs up and a particularly wicked looking smile, walking over to the group as a whole and sitting beside her own comatose body. She looks up at me and stiffens, apparently having forgotten I existed. I give her a thumbs up and a closed mouth smile to receive a, somewhat shakier, thumb in return.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>well</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>at least I have that</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----------------</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ah, the Travelers. What a bunch of incredible nerds. I recently found out what game the Travelers were esport legends at and, i'm not going to lie, it looks hella <a href="https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1gTkCTG_VUhLGa3IEhmNOKQIwObzPTsJ9DhCeWrC6SdM/edit#slide=id.p"><span class="u">fun</span></a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’d watch the hell outta that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Anyway, hope y’all like the chapter!</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah, the Travelers. What a bunch of incredible nerds. I recently found out what game the Travelers were esport legends at and, i'm not going to lie, it looks hella fun</p>
<p>https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1gTkCTG_VUhLGa3IEhmNOKQIwObzPTsJ9DhCeWrC6SdM/edit#slide=id.p</p>
<p>I’d watch the hell outta that.</p>
<p>Anyway, hope y’all like the chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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